“You’re not off to a good start, Scott.”
“With what?”
“Your attitude.” She added, “It’s an f-ing airport. You did this in Caracas.”
“I’m trained in situational awareness. Did you miss that class?”
She rolled her eyes, probably remembering one of the reasons she’d said she’d never work with him again.
They got their luggage from baggage claim, sailed through customs, and entered the small arrivals hall, which had a glass ceiling offering a view of the bright-blue winter sky. Brodie checked his phone: No messages. Local time, 7:50A.M.
Up ahead was a line of dark-suited drivers holding handwritten signs and tablets with the names of their expected passengers.
Brodie spotted a burly guy in his mid-sixties in a suit and tie under a long black topcoat holding up a card that saidBRODIE/TAYLOR. If the guy were a sausage, he’d be a knockwurst with a weisswurst complexion. He also had thinning gray hair and a bushy gray mustache.
Brodie signaled to the man, who walked over as he extended his hand and said in barely accented English, “Mr. Brodie. Ms. Taylor. My name is Ulrich. Welcome to Berlin.”
They all shook hands and Ulrich took Taylor’s rolling suitcase. “This way, please.”
He led them to a bank of elevators and pressed the call button. “How was your flight?”
“Uneventful,” said Brodie. “I believe we’re going straight to the embassy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Brodie always wanted to know who was driving him, so he asked, “Are you employed by the embassy or a car service?”
“I am an embassy employee, sir.”
“Good.” Meaning fully vetted and not likely to have been bribed to drive them somewhere to be kidnapped.
They took the elevator down to a covered parking area, and Ulrich led them to a black Mercedes sedan and Brodie noted the diplomatic plates. Brodie and Taylor climbed in the back seat as Ulrich loaded their luggage into the trunk; then he got in and pulled out of the parking lot onto an airport road.
Brodie asked, “How long to the embassy?”
“At this time of day, maybe twenty minutes. I am told you have a nine o’clock meeting.” Ulrich assured them, “Plenty of time.” He added, as if he’d said this before, “Tegel isn’t pretty, but it’s close to the center. It will be too bad when they shut it down.”
Taylor asked, “When will that be?”
Ulrich shrugged. “They’ve been talking about it for years. They built a big new airport just south of the city, but it still hasn’t opened. Big mess. Corruption, construction delays, and safety errors. Now it sits there growing weeds and housing rats. Many Berliners are angry or embarrassed by this, but the longer I can use ugly old Tegel, the better.”
Well, thought Brodie, maybe the famed German efficiency was a bit of a national myth. They were mere mortals, with corrupt government officials and idiot contractors just like everywhere else. That was comforting.
“Also,” said Ulrich, “they should never have closed Tempelhof Airport. It was historic. The Berlin Airlift. You know?”
“Yes,” said Brodie. Not to mention it was the airport of the Third Reich, and probably had an Adolf Hitler VIP lounge.
Ulrich continued, “Now it is a public park. So maybe that is good.”
Brodie changed the subject. “We saw anti-immigrant protests on the news.”
Ulrich nodded. “Yes. I assume you know about your compatriot who was killed?”
“We do,” said Taylor.
“It is a tragic thing.”
Brodie asked, “Who organized the protest?”
