“Yeah. We got comped.”
“Lucky you.”
And later got laid. “Very lucky night.” He said, “I’ll take you there one night if we’re here long enough. Great bar.” He added, “Beautiful lobby with a fountain.”
“Sounds good.” She asked, “Why did you get comped?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re there.” But not show her.
Up ahead was Pariser Platz, a large cobblestone square that stood in front of the Brandenburg Gate. In the center of the square were about a hundred demonstrators waving flags and chanting.
As they got closer, Brodie spotted German and American flags, and a large banner being held by two men that featured the logo of the AfD party along with the wordsISLAMISIERUNG STOPPEN!, which didn’t really require a translation.
Amidst the flags was a sign bearing an unflattering photo of the German Chancellor with a big X over it, as well as signs that featured the portrait of Harry Vance. Brodie also spotted a fat bearded guy waving a flag he didn’t recognize—white with a black Nordic cross and a Prussian eagle in the center, and the red, black, and white tricolor of the old German Empire in the upper corner beneath an iron cross.
Taylor followed his look. “That’s the imperial war flag. A favorite of white nationalists here, since it’s illegal to use Nazi imagery.”
Brodie watched the old battle flag rippling in the wind. He understood why Germans would want to ban the swastika, but killing symbols doesn’t kill the thing behind the symbol. And now the old banner of the Kaiser’s armies was dusted off for a new century, and with terrible new meaning.
The crowd switched from German to English and began chanting in unison: “We are the people! We are the people!” That didn’t sound malicious, but Brodie was sure he was missing some context.
In between the protestors and the embassy was a strip of landscaped lawn surrounded by a low railing. Brodie and Taylor entered the square androunded the south side of the greenspace to avoid cutting through the protest. Brodie now spotted a line of kitted-out Berlin Police officers near the embassy, and another group of officers across the square near what appeared to be the French Embassy. After Monday’s violence, the police weren’t taking any chances.
Brodie and Taylor approached the American Embassy’s glass-and-steel entrance, where a stone-faced U.S. Marine stood at attention. But before they could enter, a voice called out from behind them: “Hey! You! Americans!”
They turned toward the voice. A thirty-something German man with a shaved head was holding an America flag on a pole over his shoulder. He raised his right hand in a fist. “We. Are. The people!” He added, “Muslims out!”
“Fuck you,” suggested Brodie.
The man looked surprised. “What?”
Taylor said, “C’mon, Scott.”
Brodie stepped toward the guy. “You dishonor my flag.”
The man’s lips curled into a sneer. “You dishonor your race.”
“Asshole.” Brodie advanced on the guy.
Taylor grabbed his arm. “Not worth it, Scott. Not even a little.”
Brodie noticed two of the police officers coming closer to them. He said to the skinhead, “Your grandpa already tried this shit. Didn’t work out so well.”
He turned and walked to the embassy entrance, with Taylor close behind. The German guy continued shouting at him in a mix of German and English, but Brodie blocked it out as he and Taylor showed their passports to the Marine guard, then pushed open the doors to the embassy.
They entered a glass-ceilinged rotunda, where the marble walls were etched with the preamble to the U.S. Constitution—WE THE PEOPLE…—along with a large American flag. They showed their passports and IDs to the security man behind the front desk who, as promised by Ms. Whitmore, had instructions to let them through without an appointment. The man also had a note from Jason Butler with the room number where they were to meet the Berlin Police officer to review the security footage at ten o’clock.
The security man gave them directions to the Defense Attaché Office, and they went through a metal detector and rounded a corner into the lobby where they had waited yesterday before the briefing.
Standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows facing the inner courtyard was David Kim, dressed in his tailored black suit—sans tie—and a long topcoat. He was tapping something out on his phone, then looked up and spotted them. “Hey! Guys!” He marched across the lobby. “You hear what happened in Neukölln?”
“We saw it,” said Brodie.
“Wow.” He looked them over as if inspecting for damage. “You guys all right?”
“We’re fine,” said Taylor. “But it was awful to see.”
“News isn’t saying much, and the BKA won’t tell us anything. What did it look like to you?”
