“What are you doing now?”
More unauthorized detective work, but you should never outright lie to your commanding officer, so Brodie spun it. “The hotel we’re staying at is Muslim-owned, so no bar, so we’re looking for a liquor store.” He glanced at Taylor, who was smiling appreciatively at his cleverly worded bullshit.
Dombroski said, “All right. I will let you know once I hear back from Colonel Trask, and you will report again around this time tomorrow, if not sooner.”
“Yes, sir. And I’ll be mindful of the time difference.”
“If it’s important, it doesn’t matter what time it is. I sleep like crap these days anyway. Something you have to look forward to when you’re on the wrong side of fifty.”
“Yes, sir. Anything further?”
“Negative further.”
Dombroski hung up and Brodie put his phone back in his pocket.
Taylor asked, “Has he requested records from Kaiserslautern?”
“He has. Waiting to hear.”
They reached a wide four-lane road with cable car tracks running down the middle. They crossed, then Taylor consulted the map on her phone. “We are now in Prenzlauer Berg. The distillery is a few blocks north.”
They walked down another narrow cobblestone street, then made a couple of turns within the neighborhood. They passed cafés that looked like they offered al fresco dining in warmer weather, a biergarten that appeared closed down for the season, a number of bars, a couple of trendy-looking coffee shops full of trendy-looking people, a few high-end boutiques and baby stores, and a park with a playground. Unlike the other parts of Berlin they’d seen so far, Prenzlauer Berg had some of the feel of an old European city center, and probably had the rents and property values to match.
Taylor said, “Just up there.”
They approached a wide storefront at the base of a cream-colored turn-of-the-century building. There was a large display window showcasing bottles, wooden casks, and clay growlers of various spirits. Painted gold lettering on the window said:PREUSSISCHE SCHNAPSMANUFAKTUR.
They entered the shop and were greeted by a man of about thirty in a fitted collared shirt and skinny jeans. He had slicked-back blond hair, a bushy beard and mustache, and a sleeve of tattoos on his right arm. He smiled to his customers in the otherwise empty store. “Guten Tag.”
“Guten Tag,” said Taylor.
They walked over to a row of shelves featuring dozens of clear and amber-colored glass bottles similar to the one that Jenkins had. Along the wall next to the shelves were two six-foot-tall old copper stills along with a small plaque in German, probably describing their history.
Brodie looked to the back of the store, where a glass-paneled wall with a door led to a large room full of distillery equipment.
“Wir machen jeden Mittwoch und Freitag Führungen.”
“Sorry,” said Brodie, “we don’t speak German.”
“Ah!” said the man. “Welcome. My name is Johannes. I was saying thatwe do tours of the facility every Wednesday and Friday.” He asked, “Is there something in particular you were looking for? We do offer tastings.”
“No thank you. I already had my schnapps this morning.”
Taylor asked, “Do you have other retail outlets in Berlin?”
“No,” said Johannes. “Everything is made and sold here. We even create custom blends for customers who request them. If you find an old or rare bottle of schnapps and bring it here, we can re-create it.”
“Incredible,” said Brodie, suddenly realizing there was such a thing as a schnapps snob. “What if I bring you a bottle of scotch?”
Johannes smiled. “Then I say thank you and we drink it.” He asked, “Where are you visiting from?”
“Toronto,” said Brodie.
“Ah. I hear it is a wonderful city.”
Brodie approached the counter. “Your store was recommended to us by an American friend of ours.”
“Yes? I might know him.”
