He thought about the puzzle women Anna had mentioned, who sifted through millions of old paper scraps, using tape and glue to reassemble the past. He wondered what their success rate was, and whether most of what they were piecing together even mattered. They’d hit the jackpot with the Odin report, but most of the archives were probably the mundanities of a petty and overbearing police state—Fritz being surveilled by Hans every day for three months because a neighbor spotted a banned book on Fritz’s shelf.
Well, reconstructing that mundane report would matter to Fritz and his family. Just like finding Odin mattered to Anna Albrecht. And maybe that was enough. Maybe there was real hope in the idea that if you put back together enough of your country’s shattered and shameful past, you can finally move on from it.
But that wasn’t Harry Vance’s battle to fight—yet he got involved anyway. And it was the last mistake he ever made.
Brodie trudged through the downpour. The darkened buildings loomed up on either side of the narrow street and seemed to tilt inward, crowding the black sky, like some canted mirage. Maybe that last schnapps was a mistake. And the two before it.
He navigated to a main road and flagged a cab. He gave the cabbie Anna’s address and the car set out through the storm, its wipers at full tilt.
Brodie closed his eyes and listened to the rain.
Someone who understands what’s missing.
Taylor’s phrase came back to him again. It implied that Scott Brodie—as well as Maggie Taylor—approached this job in search of something beyond the law. And that could get you in trouble on a case like this, and in a city like Berlin. That could get you chasing ghosts. Or old spies.
Day X. Black Harvest. Storkow. Odin. Tariq Qasim. Bioweapons. Four German double agents executed in a Stasi prison. Three Syrians blown up in Neukölln. Mark Jenkins followed and intimidated. Harry Vance murdered. What was all this?
Maybe the dead can speak. Maybe Harry was speaking to him now.
And maybe he was saying:Get out while you can.
CHAPTER 33
Brodie climbed the stairs to Anna’s apartment. He saw that the door was still damaged from his forced entry, and he could see a chain lock across the narrow opening. He needed to pay for that. Actually, he already had.
He knocked, and after a minute Anna peered through the opening, slid the chain, and opened the door. She gave him a half-smile, which he returned.
Brodie could usually judge the chances of a successful evening with a lady by how she dressed and how much paint had been applied. Anna wore dark slacks and a loose white blouse, and the makeup was light. Not a promising signal. But this was another country.
He said, “You need to get the door fixed.”
“You’d just kick it in anyway.” Anna ushered him into the apartment and slid the chain lock shut, then took his soaking-wet coat and put it on a hook and led him into the kitchen.
At the kitchen table was an open bottle of red wine and an empty glass.
Anna said, “It’s a German Cab. Tastes like shit.”
“Nice label.” Brodie filled his glass and tried it. It was acidic, with subtle notes of sauerkraut.
Anna took her wineglass from the counter and sat at the table. Brodie took a seat as well.
She regarded him. “Are you drunk?”
“I’ve had a few.”
She nodded.
Ms. Albrecht herself looked a bit glassy-eyed. Also, it looked like she’d been crying. Maybe this was a mistake. Brodie asked, “How are you?”
She drank some wine. “It’s been a fucking day.” She looked at him. “You hear about that explosion in Neukölln? It was two blocks from Körnerpark.”
Brodie nodded.
Anna eyed him, trying to feel it out. “It’s not… related?”
“Don’t ask me questions I can’t answer.” He lifted his glass. “A toast to Harry.”
“Not with this shit.” She got up and located a bottle of scotch whiskey and poured two glasses. “Balvenie. Harry’s favorite.” She returned to the table and slid a glass to him, then raised hers. “To Harry.”
