Kiernan stared at Brodie, unblinking. “The official story is bullshit, of course.”
Again, Brodie didn’t respond, and neither did Taylor.
The general looked between the two of them. “You did what you had to do. But your reputation from the Mercer case precedes you, and there are people here who don’t like you.”
Meaning the CIA. And maybe military Intel guys who were somehow involved in the Mercer business.
Since they were on the subject of people who might want to kill them—and since Taylor had not yet brought it up as she’d said she would—Brodie said, “General, Ms. Taylor and I would like to be issued sidearms.”
Kiernan raised an eyebrow. “This is Germany, Mr. Brodie, not Venezuela. You don’t need a gun here.”
“With all due respect, sir, we are working a homicide case in which the victim is an Army CID agent, and until we have a better understanding ofthe motive, it’s reasonable to believe that Ms. Taylor and I could be targets.” He wasn’t sure he believed that, but it sounded good.
Kiernan thought for a moment, and nodded. “You make a point. The Germans are very strict about allowing foreign agents to carry firearms, but I will look into it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Just then Jason Butler walked back into the lobby and headed toward them.
Kiernan watched Butler approaching and said, “I’ve had to deal with this guy more in the last twenty-four hours than in the whole two years he’s been stationed here.”
As they stood and walked toward Butler, Kiernan said to Brodie and Taylor, “I doubt you are in any mortal danger in this country, but you’re about to enter a snake pit of bureaucracy and bullshit that has its own way of taking years off your life. So, as any commander would tell his troops before battle—watch your ass.”
CHAPTER 8
Jason Butler led them to a second-floor conference room with a long table. Five people were already seated, speaking quietly. At the head of the table stood a woman in her late fifties with shoulder-length brown hair, wearing a navy-blue suit. She approached Brodie and Taylor and extended her hand.
“Mr. Brodie, Ms. Taylor. I’m Sharon Whitmore, legal attaché. Welcome to Berlin.”
They all shook. Brodie regarded FBI Agent Whitmore, who had alert brown eyes but something of a world-weary demeanor.
Taylor said, “We’re glad to be on the team.”
Brodie, who was not glad to be on the team, said, “Nice meeting you.”
Whitmore gestured to the conference table. “Please have a seat. There are name cards.”
Brodie and Taylor made perfunctory greetings as they found their adjacent seats that corresponded to printed placards propped up on the table. General Kiernan and Jason Butler took their seats near Whitmore’s.
Set behind each placard was a bottle of German mineral water, a small stack of briefing materials, and a notepad and pen. A pile of apple strudel sat on a plate in the dead center of the table where no one could reach it. In a CID Quantico conference room, a box of donuts lasted about ninety seconds, but this strudel had probably been sitting there since Christmas.
Across from Brodie and Taylor were two uniformed men, talking quietly in German. The guy on the left was a dark-skinned man around Brodie’s age in a navy-blue Berlin Police uniform. His placard IDed him as Police Captain Omar Soliman, obviously an Arabic name. Brodie wondered if CaptainSoliman was in the Berlin PD’s counterterrorism division. Or maybe he was homicide, and Neukölln was his beat.
The other uniformed man was Chief Inspector Erlich Schröder. He was in his mid-fifties, a rail-thin, severe-looking guy with deep-set blue eyes and thinning strawberry-blond hair. He was dressed in an olive-drab collared shirt with epaulettes, which Brodie assumed was the uniform of the federal police force—the Bundeskriminalamt, or BKA.
Also at the table was FBI Special Agent David Kim, who looked to be of Korean descent, mid-forties, dressed in a tailored black suit and white dress shirt with no tie. Mr. Kim was in polite conversation with the person seated next to him, Sarah Hopkins of the U.S. State Department, an attractive woman of about thirty in a tan suit with oversized glasses and brunette hair pulled back in a tight bun. And next to her was another State Department rep, Howard Fensterman, a bald man in his mid-fifties who wore a rumpled blue suit and was sipping mineral water while reviewing the stack of papers in front of him. So, there were a total of ten people in this room, all with the same stated goal and different unstated agendas.
Brodie noted that this was an interior room with no windows, and was most likely a SCIF, a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, that was secure against electronic eavesdropping—a safe room that was safe from everything except grandstanding and bullshit. A lot of these types of rooms required you to turn in your phone and other electronic devices before entering, but an embassy SCIF might have different protocols. Brodie checked his phone and noted that he had no cell signal.
Brodie took a pen from the table and scribbled a note to Taylor on his pad:THE STRUDEL IS POISONED.
Taylor read the note, then wrote beneath it:HAVE A PIECE.
Sharon Whitmore took her seat at the head of the table and everyone turned their attention toward her.
“Welcome, and thank you all for being here.” She paused and scanned the faces around the table. “We are here because of the tragic death of U.S. Army CID Special Agent Harry Vance early Sunday morning. I am confident that the joint efforts of the individuals in this room, and the organizations you represent, will deliver justice for Mr. Vance. We are grateful to have the full cooperation and considerable expertise of the Bundeskriminalamt as wellas the Berlin Police, represented here by Chief Inspector Schröder and Captain Soliman, respectively.”
The two uniformed men nodded in acknowledgment.
