by Alex Carlson
He contemplated a simple solution: just walk away. The CIA had other people, good people. Let them figure it out. If they couldn’t, the Russians would handle it. Petrov said they would. Rhys didn’t trust Petrov more than a bucket of spit, but he knew that sometimes agents didn’t know the geopolitical context in which operations took place. Politics always played a role.
Just walk away. The Agency would still cut him a consultancy check, probably enough to outfit his GS and pay for the trip to the top of Norway he wanted to make in June.
He thought of the trip to Nordkap as a test, a preliminary trip that would help him prepare for an even longer trip he was planning. The longer trip had been kicking around the back of his head for years and only came to the fore when he left the Agency. It was a promise, a covenant with his father.
Rhys’ father had planned an epic journey from Dixville Notch, New Hampshire to Prudhoe Bay, Alaska. He saved his money and tuned his Honda African Twin and was scheduled to depart the day after he retired. A week before retirement, however, an embolism in his carotid artery prevented blood from reaching his brain for long enough to leave permanent damage. The stroke took away his ability to speak and left the right side of his body paralyzed.
His new handicaps were constant sources of frustration, but he vicariously enjoyed his son’s development in the world. He knew for whom Rhys worked and was tickled by the idea. He joked—he communicated through a series of gestures and charades—that he wouldn’t tell anyone. Rhys, in turn, promised to fulfill his father’s dream, to do the transcontinental trip himself, but his father shook his head and communicated that Rhys should think bigger: go around the world. Rhys’ eyes lit up with the prospect and he immediately began considering possible routes. He’d first have to make the world a safer place, he told his dad, something his position in the CIA actually enabled him to do. He didn’t want his possible routes limited.
Make the world a safer place. Only Karen had known that he wanted to do that for purely selfish reasons.
When Rhys woke up the morning after meeting Petrov, the futility of his investigation overwhelmed him. The forecast promised a mild winter day and there was little threat of rain. His apartment confined him and the city annoyed him. He couldn’t take the Berliners’ arrogance and he was tired of the same old streets. He donned his protective Klim jacket and pants, both of which were textile instead of leather, grabbed his helmet and cold weather gloves and pulled out into the street on his GS with the intention of riding as far away as possible.
He rode for over two hours, avoiding highways and high traffic areas, heading northeast, through Brandenburg, as far as the lakes region of Mecklenburg. The trees were bare and there was no snow to cover the fields. Everything was gray or brown, a reminder that winter in northern Germany was a desolate time of the year.
But neither the desolation nor the cold bothered him. He felt alive, as you only could on a motorcycle. What was it about riding a motorcycle that produced that feeling?
Well, there was that whole freedom aspect to it, of course. For most, freedom was intellectual, its existence dependent upon its definition. Rhys had read Hegel and noted how the philosopher deliberately conflated Freedom and God and History, confusing his readers beyond understanding. Rhys knew that freedom had some physical aspect to it as well. Flying through the outdoors defined freedom. It maximized movement and kept harassment from others at bay. And the political aspect was there, too: the government couldn’t control you when you rode a motorcycle, as proven by the massive explosion of motorcycle and scooter riding in East Germany under communism. A man sitting on a motorcycle felt freedom passionately.
Passion itself was another thing. So much of motorcycle riding was about maintaining the machine—and that required passion. A man—or woman—will spend endless time finding the absolute perfect bike—and then change everything about it. Modifying the bike made it unique and required tinkering with parts fitting together. It was a puzzle that was so much damn fun to figure out.
Was it power? Of course it was about power. The F800GS he was sitting on had power comparable to being pulled by 85 horses. Pulling the throttle back felt like racing into the future.
Or was it the beauty? Some were classically beautiful, others sleek and beautiful, while others were an aesthetic representation of power. A BMW, a Ducati, a Harley Davidson each had its own unique beauty just as each woman was uniquely beautiful.
That comparison to women is another aspect to it. Motorcycles are undeniably masculine. There is nothing soft or feminine about a motorcycle. Positioned there between your spread legs, a motorcycle is a phallus, a fact not denied by the many female riders.
But in general it was the visceral quality of riding the motorcycle that made it so special. You felt it on your face, through your core, in your loins. There was no denying that you were alive while on a motorcycle. Only people who hated life rode in a way to end it. Rhys loved life passionately and he drove accordingly. He loved the acceleration, the curves, the feeling of traveling through the world. He drove like he lived.
But what was the point of living and loving life if you took away the passion, beauty, power, and, yes even the masculinity?
There it was. That’s what Petrov was doing to him. He wasn’t just threatening to take away his freedom. He was demanding Adler relinquish everything that made life worth living. Maybe they were way off course with this Berlitec business, but he wasn’t going to let Petrov determine what he would do.
He pulled over in a town called Mirow and stopped at a cafe for a much needed cup of coffee. The cold had crept up on him suddenly and his fingers and toes were numb, his neck red and raw from the wind. As he was thawing, he pulled out his phone, saw a message from Stirewalt to call her back. He did so.
“Where are you?” she demanded.
“Went for a ride. Needed to clear my head.”
“We have a lead on the van Hohlbein delivered to the mosque.”
“Let me guess. The same m. o. as the vehicle parked outside Berlitec.”
“How’d you know?”
“Because the Russians are neck deep in this.”
“You need to come in. Meet me at Clayallee at 8:00 p.m.”
“This keeps getting more and more interesting, don’t it?”
Chapter Nineteen
Rhys wasn’t about to wait until eight o’clock. He rode hard, directly to Clayallee, and got there by five. Stirewalt wasn’t there. She was at the embassy, giving Sophia Venegas her daily intelligence briefing. Rhys tried to get in touch with Bashir, got no response, and so he left the compound and got a doner kebab at a nearby Turkish Imbiss. It tasted great going down, but he regretted eating it within minutes. His stomach churned and he kept burping up onions. He walked it off while trying Bashir a couple more times. Now where the hell was he? It didn’t feel right.
He went back and waited for Stirewalt outside her office. She hustled in at exactly eight o’clock and commanded him to follow her inside.
“So how’d you know the Russians were involved with the van?” she asked once the door was securely closed behind them. She hadn’t even taken her coat off yet.
No point holding back now, he thought. He told her about breaking into Hohlbein’s apartment and meeting Petrov there. She didn’t appear entirely surprised by the news, nor did she seem too upset. It was more as if she were calculating how it fit. He was impressed with her ability to stay cool.
“It would have been helpful to have known that earlier,” she said simply, dispassionately.
“Could this be part of McClellum’s plan to save the world?” he asked.
“Couldn’t be. You saw the car outside Berlitec before McClellum even dreamed up his plan.”
“So both us and the Russians are looking into Berlitec? Do they know about the mosque?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Bashir say anything about it?”
“No. He made contact today, said he was meeting Mahmoud al Taher, from th
e Blue Crescent. Said he’d check back in. Never did other than sending an exclamation point.”
“An exclamation point?”
“Yes. Just an exclamation point. So I wrote him back in kind. I sent him a question mark. Haven’t heard anything since.” She tapped the erasure of a pencil on her desk.
“I’ve been trying to reach him for a couple hours now.”
“Yeah? Half an hour ago his phone started moving.”
“You have it chipped?”
She shrugged her shoulders. Of course she had it chipped. Rhys doubted Bashir knew.
“His phone is moving at the speed of traffic, but his taxi is parked in a parking garage off of Gendarmenmarkt.” Of course she tracked his taxi, too.
She showed him the course that Bashir’s cell phone had taken since it started moving: it had moved through the city toward the north side of Berlin’s Central Train Station and then twisted and turned in a general northwest course until it got past Tegel Airport, where it turned onto a highway headed north. It was still moving.
Neither one of them liked the feel of this.
“Get someone from IT in here,” said Rhys. “I’m going after him. Something isn’t right.”
It took twenty minutes. The IT guy managed for Rhys to be able to track the location of Bashir’s phone from his own smart phone, which he inserted into a holder attached to his GS’ handlebars. By the time he peeled out of Clayallee, Bashir was well north of the city and continuing at a good speed in that direction. Rhys opened up his throttle, ran yellow lights, and weaved between cars as he tried to catch up. It was a good feeling.
“Ambassador, are you up for an adventure tonight?”
“Dmitri, please. Call me Terry.” McClellum was delighted that Dmitri had called. It meant that spending all that time together yesterday had paid off. And it had been fun, too.
“Remember that little something I mentioned yesterday, that developing activity that was somewhat related to our joint project?”
“Of course.”
“Well, something is going down tonight and I thought you might like to come along. Of course, it is not entirely within the bounds of official diplomacy. You seem to have an interest in this sort of thing.”
“Something covert?”
“You could definitely call it that. Here’s a chance to be a part of it.”
“Dmitri, you know I’m in.”
“Excellent. I thought you would be. But, Terry, discretion is necessary, so don’t tell anyone. Also, can you leave your residence unnoticed?”
“I’ve never tried. But if I can’t do that, then I’d be a pretty worthless on a covert operation. I’ll figure it out.”
When they hung up, McClellum thought hard. How do I escape my own home? In addition to the obligatory security cameras, there was a pair of guards in a booth out front. If I were younger, then I’d scale the wall in back. Perhaps a little deception would be better. That’s more up my alley.
More importantly, he thought, what do I wear? A trench coat and fedora would be cool. But he had no trench coat and the closest thing he had to a fedora was a Yankees baseball cap. Long coats were uncomfortable, anyway, and they belonged to the Casablanca age of espionage. Even Le Carré stressed function over fashion. I need something more Jason Bourne. He wore some sort of turtleneck sweater, didn’t he? I have one of those, and it’s even black. Dark jeans, too—and they just got back from the dry cleaners!
After he got dressed and threw on a waist-length jacket that he thought looked really cool, he went downstairs and out to the guardhouse in front.
“Sir?” the guard said in surprise. “Are you going out?”
“Yes, but no driver tonight. I’m being picked up.”
“Sir, we need to keep track of your whereabouts.”
“I’ll tell you what: I’ll arrange for Colin to pick me up once I know my exact location. Just need a little space.”
The van was ten kilometers ahead of Rhys on his F800GS. It was heading north on Route 19, a secondary Autobahn that led to Rostock on the Baltic coast. He had been gaining on it since leaving Berlin but he realized he’d run out of highway before he caught up to it. He had no idea where they were headed, but the direct line to the coast gave him pause. Stirewalt arranged for a second vehicle to track Bashir’s phone, too, but Rhys knew they’d never be able to keep up with him. He considered pulling over and calling her for an update, but what would be the point? He pressed on through the winter night.
The two ambassadors drank vodka and laughed in the back of Dmitri’s sedan. Next to the driver was a Middle Eastern-looking man who said little and gave an overall aura of mystery. This was the kind of covert operation McClellum liked.
They had been in the car for an hour, having a grand old time, before Dmitri told him what they were doing.
“Our little covert operation is a humanitarian one. We are trying to help the Syrians by sending them an insecticide. German law forbids it, so we need to keep this off the books. It might not be as exciting as you had hoped, but maybe it will be foggy and it will feel like it was back in the day at the Glienicke Bridge. Our sole task is to ensure that the cargo is loaded onto a boat.”
It did not occur to McClellum that it would be easier for Russians to send insecticide from Russia. Nor did he question why Petrov himself might be present for the task. His mind was elsewhere.
“Remember the end of Torn Curtain,” he said, “when Paul Newman and Julie Andrews are loaded up in baskets and hauled onto the boat heading west? I loved that scene.”
Dmitri hadn’t seen that one.
“We do need to stay out of the way, of course. There are professionals for this sort of thing,” Dmitri said. “We’ll have another drink while the others are doing the heavy lifting.”
“I’ve always said the Russians run the best operations. And trust me, I’m no hero. But if this succeeds and people are helped as a result of it, perhaps we can become heroes in the declassified history of it. Being there would make that much more authentic. You know, Dmitri, this could be the start of something huge. If we stick together, we can go places.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, President McClellum.”
“I wouldn’t think of it, President Petrov.”
They laughed and Dmitri refilled the glasses.
Chapter Twenty
The marker on Adler’s map indicated that Bashir’s phone had stopped moving in Rostock. Once Rhys got close, he parked his bike on a side street, dismounted, and took off his gloves. His fingers were numb with cold and he shook them hard to get the circulation flowing. Once some of the stiffness left, he worked his phone’s display in an attempt to zoom in on Bashir’s exact location. The beacon suggested he was literally on the water’s edge, on what appeared to be a pier.
Rhys moved awkwardly in the direction where he hoped Bashir to be. His body was rigid from the cold and he felt as though he were running in ski boots. He cautiously looked around the corner of a brick building that faced the waterfront and saw the pier before him.
The pier, like most of the city of Rostock, had been recently rebuilt. The city had suffered under communism, though the port had had an important role in the Eastern Bloc. The Red Fleet had a permanent presence in the warm water harbor, and smaller freighters and container ships sailed from Rostock, over the Baltic, to Leningrad, usually with German manufacturing and agricultural goods. Reparations it was said, even decades after the war. After German reunification, the city benefitted from government transfers, the “Solidarity tax,” in which wealthier taxpayers from the west supported their new compatriots in the east. The city was rebuilt, infrastructure improved, and a fledgling tourist industry had begun to take shape.
The scene Rhys saw showed what that money had built. Docks protruded out from the pier, loosely attached so that they could rise and fall with the tides. Larger freighters could be seen a kilometer in the distance, in a busy restricted-access area with loading cranes towering over ships and container tran
sporters that moved the unloaded goods to trucks. Here, the pier served smaller boats, but the area was still a working area and it undoubtedly was bustling from the early morning until the early afternoon. Dockhands would run back and forth, fishermen would come and go, and the only people around would be those who had business there.
There was hardly a soul around now though. The damp wind came off the water and chilled the air. On the pier itself, small sheds—undoubtedly small wind shelters to protect the hands who serviced the boats—were spaced evenly. Stacks of wooden pallets dappled the pier, which gave the impression that the area wasn’t part of any city tour. Ahead, Rhys saw a small cargo boat tied to the pier next to a one-story wooden structure that couldn’t contain more than a room or two.
Rhys focused on the structure. It appeared to be the office of a shipping company, the place where bills of lading were processed. The lights were on and Rhys could see through the building’s large windows a man sitting behind a desk and a few others standing around. The windows illuminated the area outside and Rhys could see a couple of vehicles and a small cluster of men standing around and smoking cigarettes. He could think of no reason why there would be such activity at this time of night.
He called Stirewalt.
“I’ve arrived. There’s something going on at a place called the Gdansk Bay Shipping Company. There are two vehicles out front, a dark sedan, either a BMW or a Mercedes I think, and a van, maybe the one we’re looking for. Can’t read the plate from here. The back doors of the van are open and it looks like their planning on unloading something. I can see someone in the van’s back seat. It might be Bashir, but damned if I can tell. Whoever it is, he’s not moving much. Looks sedated. According to the beacon, his phone is in that van. There’s also a boat tied to the pier. My best guess is they’re loading up a boat tied to the pier.”
