She nodded.
Brodie said, “Put your right hand in your coat pocket.”
She nodded again and put her hand in her pocket, signaling to the men that she was armed and ready to pull. Brodie did the same, finding a toothpick in his pocket, which would not pass as a 9mm Beretta if he pulled it. Brodie recalled General Kiernan’s words of wisdom:This is Germany, Mr. Brodie, not Venezuela. You don’t need a gun here.
The man in the bomber jacket emerged through the red curtain and nodded his head toward Brodie as he passed them. Two of the men in topcoats moved toward the bar, and the tallest guy stood by the exit, which confirmed to Brodie what he already knew: These guys were not here to dance.
One of the men took a seat at the bar, leaving an empty stool between him and Brodie. The other man stood behind them.
The barmaid said something in German to the seated guy, who replied, “Coke, bitte.”
Brodie looked openly at the guy at the bar and they made eye contact.The guy smiled and nodded, as though acknowledging Brodie’s presence. He also noted Brodie’s hand in his pocket.
Brodie continued to look at the man seated next to him. He was a thick, barrel-chested guy of about fifty-five with short salt-and-pepper hair that was plastered with pomade. His deep-set eyes were cloaked in shadow above a prominent nose. He wore a black T-shirt and an expensive-looking gray suit beneath his topcoat, and a thin gold chain around his neck. Several jeweled rings adorned the fingers of his hand resting on the bar.
The Coke arrived and the man held it up toward Brodie and said, “Cheers,” as though he knew what language to use.
If Brodie had his gun, he would have pulled it, said, “Cheers,” and put a round through the glass. Well, maybe not. But a nice thought.
The man turned in his seat toward Brodie and put out his hand. “My name is Rafeeq Nasir. What is your name?”
“Mr. Beretta.”
Nasir withdrew his hand.
Brodie gestured to Taylor. “And this is Mrs. Beretta. Nice to meet you.”
It occurred to Brodie that he might have totally misread this, which would be funny. Not to mention racially insensitive. But the guy in the bomber jacket had definitely followed them to the bar, and these guys had all positioned themselves like pros. When it looks like trouble, it is.
Nasir again glanced at where Brodie’s hand was deep in his pocket, probably thinking the same thing. Nasir said, “You are, I believe, Mr. Jack Davis.”
Well, the visit to the Islamic center had shaken something out of the tree. In this business, whatever you’re looking for will usually find you before you find it.
“How do you know my name?”
Nasir gestured to the man in the bomber jacket. “Hasan told me. He was told by Caleb at the Al Mahdi Islamic Center.”
Brodie looked at Hasan, who stood with his back against the wall. Unlike the three pros who had just entered, Hasan actually looked somewhat uncomfortable with this situation.
Brodie turned back to Nasir. “I told Caleb my name, not my evening itinerary.”
Nasir smiled. “Well, then, I must admit that my friend Hasan has been following you since you left the center.”
Neither Brodie nor Taylor had picked up the tail until the dance floor. Maybe because they weren’t looking for one. But they should have been.
Taylor asked, “Why were you following us?”
Nasir glanced at Taylor as though Brodie’s camel had just started talking. He didn’t reply.
So Brodie asked the same question.
Nasir replied, “I have some information for you.”
“Okay. Let’s hear it.”
He looked around the lounge. “Someplace more private. I have a car outside. We can speak there.”
“I don’t get into cars with strangers. Look, pal, if you got something to say, say it. There’s nobody in this fucking joint.”
