Taylor asked, “Where are we going?”
He still wasn’t sure. Despite some new information, they didn’t have a new direction. Brodie was waiting to hear back from David Katz of Hyperion Lab and Claudia Barese of the National Personnel Records Center, one or both of whom would hopefully provide something useful.
Brodie then remembered what Chilcott had said about the gruesome murder in Neukölln that morning, and he took out his phone and pulled up the news story. The victim was identified as an Iraqi immigrant named Hasan al-Kazimi, and the article featured a passport photo of the man.
It was Hasan, the young man who had followed Brodie after his visit to the Al Mahdi Islamic Center and had served as an informant for Rafeeq Nasir. He was also the one who had originally connected Nasir with Harry Vance, which had set Vance on his search for Colonel Tariq Qasim—a search that ended with Vance in Körnerpark on a cold winter night, hoping for answers but instead finding death.
Brodie turned his phone to Taylor. “The victim in Neukölln this morning was Hasan al-Kazimi.”
She looked at the photo. “Oh… my God… That poor man. I can’t believe it.” She added, “And I can’t understand it either.”
Brodie thought about that. As far as the press was concerned, Hasan was a random Arab victim of neo-Nazi terror. But Brodie and Taylor knew better.
But…why?
To silence him? That didn’t make any sense. All that Hasan could do was connect Harry Vance to Rafeeq Nasir, and the police had already interviewed Nasir himself.
And then Brodie remembered something Vance had said all those years ago in his counterterrorism class: Terrorists are creators of spectacle, sometimes even to the detriment of their own tactical considerations, and that needed to be internalized by a successful counterterror agent. Never forget how much these sick assholes love a good show.
Clearly, the grisly murder and mutilation of Hasan was meant to terrorize the Muslim community. The swastika. The pig’s blood. But… whyhim? Why kill one of Vance’s only known contacts in Neukölln as he was investigating Odin?
And why Harry’s eye?
That was another thing that had been nagging at Brodie. Taking a part of the victim and planting it as evidence at the bomb scene helped sell the ruse, but why not use a finger? Or an ear? If the entire point was to create a misdirect, why take aneye, the only thing that could symbolically tie the murder to Odin?
Well, Brodie knew the answer: It was another, hidden message, meant only for someone paying close attention. For someone who was on the right track.
We know that you know. And we don’t care. Because you cannot stop us.
Which meant the audience for this message was now the only two people who were taking Harry Vance’s investigation of Odin seriously and who had picked up where Harry left off: Scott Brodie and Maggie Taylor.
And that begged the question of whether these sick bastards would target someone else. Someone associated with the hunt for Odin. With Brodie and Taylor…
Brodie took out his phone and called Anna. Straight to voice mail. He checked the address on her voice message and said to the driver, “Zwei fünf Lindenstraße.” He added, “Fast. Schnell.”
The cabbie nodded and took the next turn.
Taylor asked, “Where are we going?”
“Anna Albrecht’s art gallery.”
“Why?”
He looked at her. “For nothing, I hope.”
She looked into his eyes a moment, searching.
Brodie turned away and watched out the window as the cabbie drove. His heart was pounding, his mind racing, and for the first time since this investigation began, he hoped to God that he was wrong.
CHAPTER 45
Brodie and Taylor exited the cab on Lindenstraße and approached a two-story building of white concrete and glass that was set back from the road.
They reached the building, which contained three storefronts. One was a travel agency that appeared closed, and another was vacant, its glass windows covered in brown paper.
In between them was number 25. A brushed-metal sign next to the door said:NEUE BERLINER KUNSTGALERIE. The street-facing window featured a large square painting on canvas depicting the smoldering ruins of a Middle Eastern city beneath a bright-blue sky. Dozens of children floated above the rubble holding on to bright red balloons. A sign on the window announced the title of the gallery show in German, Arabic, and then English:VOICES OF WAR.
The metal front door was slightly ajar.
