by Alex Carlson
After dinner, the small group returned to the parlor and the two ambassadors sat together by the fire while the rest chatted and laughed on two couches that faced each other in the center of the room.
Petrov did most of the talking. He discussed at length Russia’s interests in Germany and what he understood his purpose in Berlin to be. McClellum was a bit disappointed that there was nothing untoward or mischievous about it. When the two countries’ clandestine services came up—a topic Petrov raised—McClellum became more interested. “Of course,” said Petrov, “we have other channels to find out what the German government is doing, as I’m sure you do as well.”
“I suspect we get most of what we need from open sources,” said McClellum. He had read it was best to play down the ability of a spy agency, even to make them seem incompetent, so that their successes remained hidden. “I’m sure things here have quieted down since the Cold War.”
“I’ve met Lucinda Stirewalt on a few occasions,” said Petrov. “Very competent woman. You’re in good hands.” He looked at McClellum directly, telling him to cut the bullshit and that he could be trusted. “Fear not, we know what the CIA is doing in Berlin and you know what our SVR is doing. The great game continues, just not as hotly.”
McClellum couldn’t break the habit of thinking the KGB was still running the show. He’d have to ask Lucinda what this SVR was. Or maybe he’d just look it up on Wikipedia.
“To be honest,” McClellum said, “I wish I had been here before the wall came down. Must have been an exciting time.”
“Before my time as well. Yes, the stories are fabulous. It still goes on to a lesser degree, but perhaps the world is better off with less excitement.”
Petrov’s other guests laughed heartily and Petrov suggested they join them. McClellum welcomed the move and knew that it was now game time. Thus far, Tereza had been splendid. At dinner, she had sat across from Petrov and had paid him considerable attention. She gazed at him hungrily and Petrov couldn’t keep his eyes off of her. He never dismissed her banalities and remained engaged in conversation. She had indeed drunk too much, but she wasn’t sloshed, and McClellum marveled at her boffo performance.
As if on cue, Tereza moved closer to Petrov on the couch and twice he made her laugh. At one point she put her hand on his arm, a universal signal of flirtation, and he knew it was also a signal to him.
“Dmitri,” McClellum interrupted, “do you mind if I snap a few shots?” He held his mobile phone aloft. “I want to remember this night and I hope it is the beginning of a true friendship.”
“But of course, Terry. Just keep it off Facebook.” He laughed, an acknowledgement that the mood had become too relaxed for diplomatic circles.
“Wouldn’t that be a hoot,” said Terry.
Tereza grabbed Petrov’s arm and McClellum knew Petrov could feel Tereza’s breast against him. McClellum clicked away. His phone even made that artificial camera sound. Petrov loved the attention, a fact not lost on Tereza, who in a flash of boozy silliness draped her legs over the Russian ambassador’s lap. The ambassador grinned joyously. Click.
Too easy, thought McClellum. He took a few more photos of the others, to hide the money shots he had gotten, and then put his phone away and settled down in his chair. Mission accomplished.
Chapter Five
The winter air was cold and Rhys was thankful for the bike’s heated grips, which emanated heat through his insulated leather gloves and prevented his fingers from losing circulation. The advantage of a motorcycle is its ability to accelerate and weave through traffic, but with wet streets and temperatures that were approaching freezing, he had to drive absurdly slow. An F800GS is one of BMW’s taller bikes, which wasn’t usually a problem under his sizable frame, but on potentially icy streets he would have preferred a lower center of gravity. Hell, he would have preferred to be in a taxi.
He gave himself plenty of time to brake and took turns slowly enough that he didn’t have to lean. The cold was tolerable because the ride to 5 Ziege in Prenzlauer Berg took less than fifteen minutes. His visor fogged up whenever he stopped at a light and when he popped it open to ventilate it the cold air made his eyes water.
He arrived at his destination and parked on the sidewalk—another advantage of having a motorcycle in a city.
5 Ziege wasn’t exactly a dive, but smoking was still tolerated and the smoke, which billowed out when he opened the door, made the place seem murky and dated. Those who ran the place made no effort to spruce it up or make it more comfortable. The patrons, like the bar itself, were unpretentious. They liked it just the way it was. The place was dark, lit only by recessed lighting behind the bar and candles stuffed into wine bottles on each table. It was also drafty, and the breeze blew the candle flames this way and that and layers of wax dripped down and built up on the sides of the bottles. The whole lighting system provided fashionable ambiance a decade or two ago, but was hopelessly outdated now. Still, no one at 5 Ziege cared or probably even noticed.
The city’s prohibition of smoking in bars and restaurants was ignored because no inspectors visited 5 Ziege. In truth, they probably didn’t know of the place. It had opened soon after the wall came down when someone converted his ground floor apartment into a bar. No permits requested, none granted. Friends drank and talked in low voices. Solitary drinkers stared into bottles. Most drank beer, either from a glass or out of the bottle, while others drank something stronger, usually whiskey. There weren’t many wine-drinkers, and if someone ordered a glass, they got something purchased from the lower shelves of a supermarket. People got drunk, but never rowdy. When they left in the hours before dawn, they did so quietly and the neighbors never complained.
Bashir sat in the corner, drinking a Czech pilsner from a bottle. Bashir was Muslim, but not so strict that he didn’t drink alcohol. He looked up from his phone when Rhys arrived and acknowledged him with a smile and a slight upward nod of his head. Rhys put his helmet and gloves on an empty chair, took off his jacket, and placed his hand on Bashir’s shoulder. It was an embrace that acknowledged a mutual understanding of each other.
Bashir Hamoudeh wasn’t a snitch. The CIA had nothing over him and if he owed the Agency anything, it was gratitude. The Agency had evacuated Bashir’s family from Amman when Islamists from Syria had crossed the border with the intent of killing Bashir’s father, a lawyer who was involved in a multinational effort to identify radicals in Jordan. The family was flown to Greece and after working their way to Germany, Bashir experienced the multicultural world of openness and helpfulness. He identified with many worlds and was appalled by those who refused to be open to the simple fact that different people lived their lives in different ways. His ability to fit in made him valuable to the Agency and he cooperated willingly, paying back the debt he owed them. He took the Agency’s money, but he would have done it for free. It was his contribution to an open world.
“They pulled you back in for this?” Bashir asked.
“I had reasons,” Rhys said, and that was it for the small talk. “Tell me about the mosque.”
“It’s the Blue Crescent Mosque, near Südkreuz. Been going there for the better part of a year. Typical low budget place. It gets a lot of refugees coming in, both Syrian and North African. The imam is intense and has a tight group of followers that hang on his every word. He doesn’t openly preach hate or violence, but there’s at least sympathy for ISIS, even if the connection isn’t there yet. I don’t know what he says to his disciples in private.”
Rhys looked around as Bashir talked. The dark made it impossible to make out the pictures on the walls and he realized that he had been here countless times and had never noticed the decor. Half the tables were occupied, but it was only midnight. The night was still young. The place would stay open until the last drinkers left, usually around four or five.
“And the insecticide angle?” Rhys asked.
“Heard about it by coincidence. One of the guys sucking up to the imam mentioned Berlitec a few
times. I was curious, so I looked it up and saw that they made insecticides and pesticides. Maybe I was being overly cautious, but I decided to contact the good guys. And they contacted you.”
Rhys smiled. Good guys. That was rich.
Rhys had spent an hour on Berlitec’s website before coming here. It was a legit company and he couldn’t figure out why it might be connected to a radical mosque. He’d have to get a feel for it, which he would start to do immediately after he left Bashir.
They spent the better part of an hour talking about the mosque, about the imam and the worshippers. After Bashir had initially informed Stirewalt, she had sent a camera team down to discretely take pictures of people coming and going. Bashir now showed the photos to Rhys and provided background information on those he knew anything about. Facial recognition would take place at Langley; Bashir just provided his gut feelings.
“Still driving your taxi?” Rhys asked, once they had been through the photos.
Bashir said yes but shook his head at the misery it involved.
“Don’t give it up. At some point you’re going to want to leave all this stuff behind you. It isn’t worth it half of the time and the risks far exceed the benefits. Protect yourself.”
Chapter Six
Colin Murphy hated his new role. He had expected a bigger office, decision-making powers, and responsibility for operations. Sitting behind the wheel driving an asshole ambassador around Berlin’s dirty wet streets was not what he had had in mind. And the current conversation from the backseat nauseated him.
“You were wonderful, my dear.”
Tereza, fingers intertwined in her lap, shrugged her frail shoulders and smiled as if quietly proud of her performance.
“And you look delicious, too.”
Colin rolled his eyes. They were stopped at a light, waiting to turn onto Friedrichstrasse. He worked the mirrors, looking for possible threats, as he was trained to do, but really he was looking for anything that might distract him from the backseat. He watched wealthy Berliners and tourists walking the streets, window-shopping after gorging themselves on overpriced meals in smart restaurants. Colin even welcomed the distraction of the displays in brightly lit boutiques and high-priced cosmetic stores.
“Are we going to go somewhere?” Tereza asked.
Colin knew what McClellum was thinking: a full service date. Damn, thought Colin. That would extend the night by a few hours.
“The residence might not be the best option,” McClellum said.
“I know a place.”
“Wonderful.”
Tereza gave the address to Colin, who looked in the rearview mirror at the ambassador, hoping he wouldn’t get confirmation. He must have annoyed the ambassador, who clearly felt staff shouldn’t get all uppity. McClellum just looked down, probably at Tereza’s stockinged legs. They were nice legs, Colin admitted.
Colin had the car at Tereza’s destination, the corner of Kurfürstenstrasse and Potsdamer Strasse at the west end of the Tiergarten within ten minutes. He had become tense as the car approached what was Berlin’s sorry excuse for a red light district. Berlin was no Amsterdam or Hamburg, though there was a concentration of porn shops, streetwalkers, and bordellos, as well as a tinge of excitement in the air. Colin pulled the car over.
“Sir, may I have a word before you go?” Colin said, his voice firm.
McClellum was in no mood to be distracted. “No, you may not,” he said gruffly.
McClellum stepped out of the car and looked at the vibrancy around him. Neon lights of porn shops and brightly lit doner kebab stands lit up the night. Men walked by, either looking down at their feet to avoid the prostitutes’ propositions, or looking directly at them, checking out the wares. The hookers lined up in an orderly fashion, each about five meters from the next. The corner spot seemed to be the most coveted and they waited their turn, shifting their weight from foot to foot as they tried to stay warm. Each wore bright one-piece ski suits that nonetheless advertised ample curves.
My God, what do they wear in summer? McClellum wondered.
Some people were just out for a night on the town, uninterested in taking part in the lascivious activities, but nonetheless welcoming the district’s liveliness. There was a thriving nightclub scene and the bars and restaurants were hopping.
“About an hour or two, I’d guess,” McClellum told Colin.
“Sir, we need to speak. Something—“
“Not now, Colin. I know you are more than my driver; you are my security, too. But I am not as naive about the ways of the world as you may think. Lighten up a little, will you?”
“Sir, I—“
“Colin, enough.”
The destination was, to McClellum’s delight, a bordello. He realized that Tereza was as much a lowly hooker as a high priced call girl. The thought turned him on even more.
The decor inside Maxime’s was almost a cliché. Red was the dominant color. The carpet was plush red, the bar stools were faux leather red, and on the wall was a red neon sign that screamed Maxime’s in exaggerated cursive. The dim lights bathed the parlor in a seedy glow. A husky man with a dark, trim beard wiped down the bar in front of a mirror that doubled the apparent size of the place. The barkeep said nothing as they came in, nor did the men and women who were arranged around tables on low sofas and padded chairs. The men were middle-aged, overweight, and generally unhealthy-looking, but McClellum saw that they were full of confidence and spoke loudly. They didn’t care. Here, they were kings of the castle. The women, scantily clad to the point where the cellulite on their asses dimpled as they sat, squirmed to give the men attention. They were probably told to keep everyone drinking.
McClellum inhaled deeply and smelled sex and smoke and alcohol and disinfectant. It was nauseatingly arousing. Tereza led him by the hand through the room and down a hall with pink walls and red carpeting until they reached the third door on the left. Tereza opened it without a key and led him inside.
She turned on the light to reveal a large bed with a glimmering zebra-patterned cover and half a dozen carefully arranged pillows. Large mirrors hung on two walls that were covered with wallpaper featuring dark red roses on a pink background.
Tereza hung her coat on a hook on the wall and walked up to him and gave him a kiss on the lips while placing her hand on his chest. It was just a taste of things to come. “Get comfortable,” she said. “I’ll get us drinks. What would you like?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
Tereza left, closing the door behind her. He took off his coat and jacket and hung them over the back of a chair. He slipped off his tie, rolled it up, and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. Well, this is an experience, he thought.
Tereza returned with two cocktails in martini glasses. She handed one to him, and they made a silent toast before she downed hers in a single gulp. He followed suit, knowing she was as eager as he was.
Her skills exceeded any expectations he might have had. How a girl with the face of an angel and legs of a fairy could be so, well, so dirty, was beyond his imagination. He did imagine it, of course, musing that Eastern European prostitutes in Berlin probably followed a certain career path, starting with webcams and pornography followed by pimps and traffickers until she was fully broken in—trained, really—into the business. She knew when to pull, when to thrust, when to squeeze. She arched her back and curled her toes, her face expressed pleasure and pain at the right moments. She knew everything that would lift him up, drive him wild, send him over the edge. She allowed him to live out his silly little fetishes without reproach or surprise. She was, simply put, perfect.
Afterward, he lay back on the bed as she lifted her martini glass, having forgot that she had drained it.
“Astonishing,” he said. “Simply astonishing. You were toying with me in the middle there and I loved every moment of it.” He had been with prostitutes before, but neither Bangkok nor Bogota produced a woman who held a candle to Tereza.
She had stopped listening to his p
ost-game analysis and McClellum feared that the act had, for her part, been a mere professional transaction, and that the moans she had brought forth during her heights were less sincere than he had believed. He felt the need to compliment her regardless.
“That little coup we pulled off at the embassy was a masterpiece.”
“It wasn’t that hard really. Once I saw that Alexei was there.”
“Alexei? The attaché? You knew him?”
“I’ve met him. Russians aren’t embarrassed by prostitution. Most of the girls here at Maxime’s are Russian and they wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t a demand for them.”
McClellum was taken aback. “So, he knows what you do?”
“Of course. He’s been here. I’ve slept with him.”
McClellum sat up, suddenly disturbed that the Russians had known that he had brought a prostitute to their embassy. Did Dmitri know? He didn’t seem bothered about it if he did. Regardless, he certainly didn’t care about having his picture taken with her.
McClellum suddenly had doubts that his little operation was as much of a slam-dunk as he had thought.
“What is the matter, dear?” Tereza asked. “You look upset. Don’t be upset. That was beautiful what we just had.” She didn’t sound sincere.
“I just need to think a little.”
“I’ll go to the bathroom.” She put on a robe. “If we are done, then I’ll get dressed.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, his mind elsewhere. “We’re done.”
She left and closed the door behind her. He got up and put on his underwear and socks, t-shirt and shirt. As he buttoned it up, he heard a click at the door. He looked toward it while continuing to button. The noise could only have been one thing, but it couldn’t have been what he thought. He slowly crossed the room and stared at the door handle. He reached for it cautiously. Mustering his courage, he pushed it down. The door didn’t open. He tried again. Nothing.