“Call me if you think of anything.”
“If I think of anything helpful to this case, I’ll pass it on to the people working this case.”
“And tell my replacements that they can call me.”
“Okay. And you can tell them why you just got booted off one of the biggest cases of your career.”
“I’m here for justice. Not résumé-building.”
“Justice is a group effort, Scott. Harry understood that—until, for some reason, he started behaving like you, and now he’s dead.”
“And I’m here to find out who killed him. Before someone gets away with murder.”
“Jesus, Scott. It was the Syrians. Retribution for us killing Jibril Saleh in Tripoli. And they didn’t exactly get away with it, did they?”
Brodie said, “So these three guys were, what? A sleeper cell posing as Syrian refugees who were activated because some wealthy corrupt businessman who was feeding Intel to the Americans got clipped in Libya?”
“That’s where the evidence points.”
“And then the al Qaeda handlers of these three terrorists waited for Harry to be in Berlin to kill him? Why Berlin? And they somehow knew you’d come to Berlin, and they’d kill you here as well? But before they whacked you, they were tailing you, and being very obvious about it, so you would report it? And how did they know you were at the Radisson? And why didn’t they just whack you on the street? Instead, they overcomplicate the hit and decide to rig a bomb to your car—that ended up exploding in their faces? Is that how they operate? Are they that stupid?”
Jenkins didn’t respond.
Brodie continued, “I asked you what cases might have made you and Harry a target, and this Libyan case didn’t even occur to you. Because it doesn’t track, and you know it.”
Jenkins hesitated, then said, “True, this isn’t the typical modus operandi of Sunni extremist cells, but the evidence is obvious and indisputable.”
“What if it was all a setup? A false flag op.”
Jenkins looked at him for a moment. Then he said, “I think we’re done here.”
“Have you looked into the backgrounds of these three so-called terrorists?”
“No, Scott. Because this isn’t my case.” He added, “But I’m sure the BKA has, and regardless, your replacements from Kaiserslautern certainly will run their own background checks on the deceased Syrian suspects.”
“That’s a start.” Brodie stood and looked at Jenkins. “May, April. The Stuttgart case, or maybe something else. Think about it. You have my number.”
“I wish you’d lose mine.”
Brodie walked out of the hotel and across the square, confident that he’d at least planted a seed of doubt in Mark Jenkins’ mind. More importantly, Brodie had pointed out inconsistencies and oddities in this case that didn’t fit the forensics or the clues. And everything has to fit. And what made everything fit—including Harry’s eyeball in the Syrians’ freezer—was Brodie’s belief that this was all an elaborate deception.
As he crossed Alexanderplatz, someone called his name. Brodie turned to see two men in suits and long dark coats approaching. The taller one, an African American guy in his early fifties with a shaved head and a square jaw, extended his hand as he got closer.
Brodie took it and they shook. “You lost again, George?”
The man smiled. “Same old shit. When are you gonna get serious?”
“When I grow up.”
“Don’t do that.”
George Jones was a CW5, and Brodie had worked with him a few times over the years. He was capable and amiable, and had a good rep. Brodie knew that Jones was based in Kaiserslautern with the 5th MP, and apparently he was Scott Brodie’s replacement.
Jones said, “This is my partner, Brad Mellman.”
Brodie shook hands with Mellman, a rail-thin white guy in his mid-thirties who’d obviously been quick-briefed by Jones. Mellman said, “It’s an honor to meet you.”
“I just got booted back to Quantico, Mr. Mellman.”
