Finally Blondie asked, in good English, “What are you doing here?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you.”
“Yes? Well, we are here to escort you to police headquarters.”
“Why?”
“You don’t need to know why. You just need to come with us.”
Brodie now saw the handcuffs hanging from Blondie’s belt. He said, “I assume you know who I am.”
“Of course,” said Blondie. “That’s why we are here.”
“Right. Well, I think the guy who lives in this apartment—you know who that is—just shot himself. You need to call an ambulance.”
Both guys exchanged glances, but neither of them reached for his walkie or cell. So, definitely not cops.
Blondie said, “That will be taken care of. Now you must come with us.” He asked, “Are you armed?”
Brodie wanted to say, “If I was, you’d both be dead by now.” But why give them ideas? He said, “Not armed.”
Blondie nodded, then said something in German to elevator man, who hadn’t spoken so far but now started toward Brodie while unclipping his handcuffs.
This was the moment, and Brodie knew there would be no more moments to turn this around.
Blondie said to Brodie, “Turn, hands behind your back.” He put his hand on the butt of his gun to show Brodie he meant business.
Brodie nodded, turned his back toward elevator man, waited a second until the guy was close, then suddenly spun around and delivered a swift kick, under the guy’s ballistic vest and into his non-ballistic balls.
Before Brodie had time to enjoy the moment, he spun again and saw Blondie going for his gun, but not backpedaling as he should have. Brodiewas on him in a flash and aimed his fist at the second most pain-inducing spot on the human body—the nose. He connected and heard the crack of cartilage, and Blondie’s hands flew up to his face, leaving Brodie to pluck the gun out of the guy’s holster. Brodie put his back against the wall, surveying the scene of resisting arrest, or saving his ass. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was the latter, but better safe than dead. If he’d screwed up, he could apologize to Captain Soliman and buy everyone a beer. Right.
Blondie was on his knees now, his hands still on his face and blood seeping between his fingers. Elevator man was rolling around on the floor, his hands clasped to his groin, probably feeling for his nuts. One… two…
Brodie glanced at the gun in his hand. It looked like an old Makarov, a 9mm semi-automatic, made in the Soviet Union and used by most Eastern Bloc countries. He’d seen a few of these in Iraq, and it wasn’t a bad weapon, but not something a German policeman would carry. Nor would a German military man carry an old Soviet weapon. But it was something that would be used in a false flag job. There were plenty of Makarovs around since the end of the Cold War. He checked to see that there was a round in the chamber, and flipped off the safety.
What he needed to do now was cuff both these guys, take the other gun, then search them for ID. But a door opened across the hall, and an old woman stuck her head out to see what was happening. She saw the two guys in police gear rolling around, then looked at Brodie, who was standing there with a gun in his hand. She slammed the door shut, and presumably grabbed her phone to call the police. In fact, there were probably lots of those calls being made right now, and Brodie could almost hear police sirens approaching. Or was that the German opera from the late Stefan Richter’s apartment? Well, the fat lady had sung, and it was time to leave. He definitely didn’t want to deal with the police.
Brodie moved quickly toward the stairwell door, opened it, and started down the switchback staircase, two at a time.
Well… what had he accomplished? A potential witness or informant had killed himself, two unidentified flaming assholes had tried to kill or kidnap him, and he was now on the run. But now he had a gun.
He got to the lobby level and cracked open the door. No one there. Heshoved his gun in his waistband and walked casually but quickly toward the lobby exit and into the cold outside air.
He looked up and down the street for a police vehicle but didn’t see one, confirming his deduction that these guys were either impostors or real cops who were pursuing an extracurricular activity.
Frankfurter Allee looked peaceful, and he continued walking as though out for a stroll. He checked his phone and located the U-Bahn station on Magdalenenstraße and headed that way.
Well, so much for his taxi ride to avoid or spot a tail. Those two guys had followed him, and he’d missed it. Or… they’d picked him up in Alexanderplatz, and when they saw that he was heading toward Lichtenberg, they guessed where he was going and took another route to Richter’s apartment building. Brodie had done that himself many times. But that assumed some foreknowledge on the part of the tails.
The other possibility was that these guys had been scoping this building, watching to see if anyone—or perhaps Scott Brodie in particular—was following in Harry Vance’s footsteps and paying a visit to Stefan Richter.
Brodie recalled how Tariq Qasim’s apartment building had also been watched—by Rafeeq Nasir’s people, but also possibly by… who? The old white guy Brodie had spotted getting into a car in Neukölln and then saw again in the Hotel Adlon lobby. Maybe someone was keeping an eye on the trail of Vance’s investigation, to see if anyone picked up the scent. And what they found was a very persistent American investigator who wouldn’t take the hint that the case was closed.
He continued quickly toward the U-Bahn station. Maybe it was the adrenaline, but the city felt suddenly different, like a veil had slipped, revealing its true self—or maybe its old self. He looked up at the looming Soviet-era apartment blocks lining the boulevard, each of their hundreds of identical windows providing a bird’s-eye view of his movements.
Scott Brodie had learned a lot of lessons over the course of his military career, both in war and on screwed-up investigations in fucked-up places. And one of those lessons was, if the path you’re on is full of people trying to kill you, you’re probably going the right way.
CHAPTER 39
