Brodie and Taylor were given some version of the former within hours of their return from Venezuela—a very uncomfortable sit-down with General Stephen Hackett, the Provost Marshal General of the United States Army. It was a carrot-and-stick kind of meeting—they were both informed that they were getting letters of commendation in their files for the successful conclusion of a dangerous mission, along with a modest pay bump. They were also told, in an indirect way, that they could each expect to spend the rest of their lives in the Federal Penitentiary at Fort Leavenworth if they ever attempted to make public what they had learned about clandestine and top secret operations in the course of their investigation. The operations in question were also illegal—war crimes, actually—but why mention that?
Colonel Dombroski wasn’t present for this Pentagon meeting, which was highly unusual; he instead met later with his two CID agents for an official debrief. After Dombroski listened to Brodie and Taylor’s version of events, he informed them of the Pentagon’s version, which bore little resemblance to the truth but did have the benefit of not embarrassing individuals in the CIA, DIA, or JSOC. Brodie and Taylor were expected to parrot this line of bullshit in their official report, and Colonel Dombroski didn’t have to trouble himself making the threats already communicated by his Pentagon superiors.
Dombroski was an honest man by nature and it was clear that it pained him to strong-arm his agents into a cover-up, but it was indicative of just how big a rock they’d turned over in the course of their mission. Brodie and Taylor could not prove what they’d seen and heard in Venezuela, so they played ball and submitted a work of fiction to close the case file on Captain Kyle Mercer. Brodie was still troubled by all this, and while he and Dombroski had not spoken of the mission since, it seemed the colonel was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Scott?”
“No visits, no phone calls, no bricks through my window or dead animals in my mailbox.” He added, “My life has been very boring. Thanks to you.”
Dombroski looked at him. “I’m just following orders. And so will you.”
The waiter delivered their beers and onion rings, promising their burgers would be out shortly.
Dombroski pushed the basket of onion rings toward Brodie, who pushed them back. “You first, Colonel. Just in case the line cook is on the Agency’s payroll.”
“This is all a joke to you.”
“Life’s a joke. And death is the punchline.”
“Sometimes I think you’re too eager to get to the punchline.”
Brodie didn’t reply, and Dombroski said, “One of the great mysteries of life is why kamikaze pilots wore helmets.”
Brodie smiled politely and took a swig of beer. He wondered when his boss would get to the point of this urgent meeting.
Perhaps sensing this, Dombroski cleared his throat and lowered his voice as he said, “Early this morning I received some disturbing news from our colleagues in Germany. We lost one of our own. Special Agent Harry Vance, based out of Kaiserslautern with the Fifth MP Battalion. Murdered in Berlin.”
That took Brodie by surprise, and he had no response.
Dombroski continued, “I met Vance a few times over the years. You may have as well. He was a good man. A good agent.”
Brodie did remember Harry Vance. He was one of Brodie’s instructors at the U.S. Army Military Police School in 2005, where he taught a classon counterterrorism. Brodie said, “I took his class during the Special Agent Course. I remember being impressed.”
Dombroski nodded. “He was one of the best.”
Kaiserslautern was the headquarters for the CID’s operations in Europe, and Brodie recalled that the agents of the 5th MP Battalion were nicknamed “The Professionals” for, well, their professionalism. Germany was considered a plum overseas posting, reserved for the best of the best—men and women who could hold their own with the Germans, who were natural-born policemen.
Dombroski said, “His body was found early this morning by a woman walking her dog in a city park. Single gunshot to the temple.”
Dog walkers and joggers always find the dead bodies. Best to avoid both activities. No one had ever discovered a stiff while watching football on their couch.
Dombroski continued, “The woman contacted the Berlin Police, who in turn contacted the Bundeskriminalamt—the German Feds—once the police realized who the victim was. The BKA are taking the lead on the case and handling forensics, witness interviews, and so forth.”
“How did they ID the victim?”
“His wallet was still in his pocket.” He added, unnecessarily, “So this was not a robbery.”
Brodie nodded. “Was Vance still working counterterrorism?”
“He was. A senior agent on the TCIU team. And the park where he was found is in a neighborhood called Neukölln, which is the center of the Arab immigrant and refugee community in Berlin. This is going to be a political and diplomatic shit-show.” He added, “General Hackett has handed me this case.”
“I hope you find the right sucker to take the assignment.”
“I’m looking at him.”
Brodie did not reply.
“Everyone’s going to want a piece of this. German Feds, Berlin Police, FBI, State Department, and, of course, the U.S. military.”
