by Alex Carlson
Petrov listened to McClellum’s account and humored him, though McClellum knew he couldn’t fully appreciate it. Russia didn’t have the same tradition of spy books that the West had. He’d have to remember to send him some copies.
Both agreed that the First Annual Ambassadorial Tour of Cold War Berlin was a tremendous success and that next year’s would be even better, both a social occasion where plenty of imbibing would be done and an educational event. Maybe in addition to the other ambassadors they’d find a historian who could settle their disputes about what really happened during the Cold War. He’d have to be impartial, of course, which in McClellum’s thinking meant he’d have to provide a complete rebuke of communism and the Soviet Union.
Chapter Sixteen
Stirewalt’s tacit agreement to Rhys’ suggestion of a don’t ask, don’t tell policy was all the green light Rhys needed to break into Werner Hohlbein’s apartment. She’d probably be pissed, but he’d had enough of her hesitancy.
He took the long route to Hohlbein’s, riding first out to Berlitec in Frohnau, where he saw that a brand new Audi—which the Agency confirmed belonged to Hohlbein—was sitting in the lot. The white VW was again parked across the street, but he ignored it. He turned around and rode back into the city, heading to Kreuzberg. The whole roundabout trip was merely to confirm that Hohlbein, who the Agency determined lived alone, was not at home.
Kreuzberg was a surprising home for a chemist at a pesticide manufacturer. The Bezirk was home to many of Berlin’s immigrant population, specifically the SO 36 area, which had a large Turkish population and a strong Muslim influence. It wasn’t the type of place you’d expect to find ISIS sympathizers, however. If anything, the area celebrated multiculturalism and diversity, including a persistent American, and specifically African-American, influence, no doubt a leftover from the American servicemen stationed in Berlin before German reunification. More notably, Kreuzberg was the home of the famed SO 36 club, the Berlin equivalent of New York’s CBGB’s. The Ramones, who put CBGB’s on the map, solidified SO 36’s reputation in the late 1970s, though the club already had an edge from frequent performances by Iggy Pop and especially David Bowie, who retreated to the city in order to detox from his Thin White Duke period.
A GS is a common motorcycle Germany, though it’s not altogether inconspicuous, especially in Kreuzberg, where sports bikes are favored. It’s considered an ugly bike by everyone except those who love them, a hybrid between a dirt bike and a touring bike, two categories that didn’t fit terribly well together unless you were riding around the world. Rhys wasn’t worried that anyone would mess with it, but he feared it might be remembered, so he parked on a dark street two blocks from Hohlbein’s apartment. He walked to Hohlbein’s building, checking for anything unusual. Everything was unusual in Kreuzberg, so he looked for anything that didn’t fit the circus.
Hohlbein’s building was on a quiet street and no one was around. The light above the front door gave Rhys pause though, as he didn’t like the idea of being illuminated. It would have to go. He looked casually around, jumped, and punched the plastic case around the bulb. It fell to the ground, cracked, and skidded to the wall. The bulb was still burning, brighter now that the case was gone. Rhys jumped again and gave it a tap and shards rained down around him.
Picking locks was a matter of feel, not sight, so the darkness didn’t slow him. He bent to one knee and inserted a feeler pick and a tension probe into the old-fashioned pin-and-tumbler. He raked the feeler over the ridges, pushing the internal tumblers to the side when they lined up to the lock’s housing. When all were aligned, he turned both instruments and the keyhole turned until he heard the satisfying click. He pushed open the door, stepped inside, and let it close behind him.
Second floor, he knew. He climbed the stairs and then snapped on his penlight and searched until he saw the name Hohlbein next to a door. He then repeated the exercise with the second pin-and-tumbler. The door opened with the same ease as the one downstairs. He entered and closed the wooden door quietly behind him.
The apartment was dark and still and he used the moment to let his eyes adjust. He focused on his task. Find something to link Hohlbein to the mosque or anything about the van that Bashir had witnessed being transferred from Hohlbein to Mahmoud al Taher. More generally, Rhys was looking for signs that suggested that Hohlbein had strayed from the reservation and was developing chemical weapons for terrorists. Circumstantial evidence suggested a connection, but Hohlbein’s profile didn’t fit. He agreed with Stirewalt that the case was thin and he admitted to himself that something didn’t feel right about his involvement.
“Are you going to stand there all night or are you going to turn the light on?” The voice was non-threatening. The accent was Russian.
Rhys clicked on his penlight, pointed it at a figure sitting, legs crossed, in a high-backed Ikea chair.
“Please. That is a little bright.”
Adler turned off the flashlight and reached back and flipped the light switch on the wall. The ceiling light went on, bathing the room in light. The room was neat and clean, as if out of a catalogue. It was hard to imagine anyone actually lived there.
“Don’t worry. We are alone. Werner Hohlbein is still at work. He is being watched and I will be notified if they start in this direction. Though since you are here, you probably already know that.”
“Can I ask what you are doing here, Mr. Ambassador?”
Dmitri Petrov didn’t miss a beat. “What are you doing here, Mr. Adler?”
“Gathering intelligence as you must know.”
The Russian Ambassador smiled. “You’re in luck then. I probably have the intelligence you need.”
Petrov had been in Berlin long enough to know of Adler’s exploits. The CIA and SVR kept an eye on one another, though these days it was usually to stay out of each other’s way. The Russian and American spy services in Berlin had different missions and were not openly adversarial. They just followed their respective orders and agreed to coexist. Petrov had known enough about Adler to respect him.
“I didn’t know that you returned to the Agency,” Petrov said.
“I haven’t. I’m consulting.”
“Ah,” said Petrov, understanding immediately. “Non-official cover. Risky position to be in.”
“My participation is limited.”
“Yet you have been talked into breaking and entering.”
“Actually, I talked myself into it. Station was more cautious.”
“Don’t get caught. Your embassy might not remember who you are.”
“Can we cut the bullshit? Why are you here?”
“Merely to communicate. I knew someone would come once you got a name to work with.”
How did Petrov know that, Rhys wondered. Was he being watched? Worse, was Bashir being watched? A leak? Petrov was relaxed and comfortable. He seemed to be enjoying himself.
“I’m sure you’ve heard that we shall be working together. Not you and I, but Ambassador McClellum and I. We spent the day together, first in a meeting and then on a private tour of the city. I am confident we will have a productive relationship.”
“That’s all fine and good, but frankly it’s above my pay grade and I really don’t care. But what are you doing here, in Werner Hohlbein’s apartment. Better put, what is your involvement in this?”
“The same as yours. We followed the leads here the same as you did.”
“But you’re an ambassador. This is below your pay grade.”
“True. But I wanted to communicate clearly, without others involved. My message is simple: the CIA is to leave this alone. This is your dead end. You can surely convince Stirewalt of that. In return, I can assure you that this will be followed up from our end and it will be mutually beneficial to both our countries. You must believe me when I say that it is not what you think it is. In truth, my government has not always been on the right side when it comes to fighting terror. This, I hope, will be a minor step toward turning the
tables.”
“And how does McClellum’s activities the other night fit into all of this?”
The Russian Ambassador cocked his head, unsure what Adler meant.
“His extra-curricular activities at Maxime’s,” Rhys said. “That was an SVR operation.”
“Oh that. It actually wasn’t an operation. To be honest, it fell into our laps. It was too easy to pass up. Almost succeeded, too, until some cowboy—. Oh, I see. That was you.”
Rhys said nothing.
“Mr. Adler, you’ll be pleased to know that you caused us a headache with your retrieval of the ambassador. Not more than a headache, but still, clearing it up will be a distraction. Regardless, you should be commended, even if I would have preferred you never having showed up. You were smart to get the security DVD. It would have been embarrassing from what I hear. But you missed something.” Petrov paused, wondering if Adler would realize his mistake. Rhys said nothing, so the ambassador continued. “The lounge. There was also a camera there, of course. I’m sure if I were to inspect the footage, then your face would be clear as day.”
Rhys knew it was possible, even probable. He had missed it.
The ambassador continued: “I don’t think your non-official cover would be much help if that disk were delivered to the German authorities. Worry not, it is unlikely to leave our possession. Unless, of course, you fail to realize that looking into this business is a dead end.”
Chapter Seventeen
Mahmoud al Taher had been one of the lucky ones: his room at the Tempelhof refugee shelter had just twelve bunks in it. Other rooms contained up to forty, with single men mixed in with families and children who had arrived in Germany unaccompanied. The shelter was massively overcrowded. It was poorly organized, loud, hot, and smelled of cooking oil and clothes in desperate need of washing.
Nearly all of 1,200 refugees at Tempelhof had fled civil war or impoverishment in the hope of starting a better life. The majority came from Syria or Iraq, but others came from Afghanistan or North Africa. Cultures clashed, different languages and dialects prevented efficient communication, and the growing sense of frustration among the refugees fueled an omnipresent tension.
Mahmoud sat on his lower bunk hunched over his smart phone. It was the most popular activity among refugees. Most did it until their batteries or credit ran out, trying to maintain a connection with family back home. But Mahmoud had no family back home. In fact, he had lived in Berlin before being convinced to return to his native Syria in order to develop some necessary skills and to make the long, arduous journey back to Germany as a refugee. His voyage was sponsored generously by Russia’s foreign intelligence service, the SVR. With a new identity and refugee bonafides, he could better become accepted in Berlin’s more radical mosques.
The Russians, from time to time, had a use for radical Muslims who were willing to die for their religion. Sometimes they were exploited, sometimes the arrangement was mutually beneficial. Mahmoud was not being exploited and he did not seek to die. His allegiance was to Russia for the simple reason that Russia promised him a comfortable future. He was no radical, but he could play the part.
Today, Mahmoud had called the imam and convinced him that he needed to inspect the delivery from Berlitec. The imam was confused and Mahmoud professed ignorance himself—what did he know about chemistry?—but he understood it to be necessary, so he volunteered to do it. Alas, his foot hurt and a ride would be helpful. Perhaps Bashir could drive him again?
So now Mahmoud sat on his bed, waiting for Bashir to call. His phone finally rang and Bashir told him that he had arrived in front of the terminal.
Bashir had not expected the call from the imam, but he welcomed the activity. He wanted desperately to help the Agency—the organization that saved his family—and the situation at the Blue Crescent Mosque was thus far his best opportunity to do so. He called Stirewalt and told her he was meeting Mahmoud for some unknown reason and that he would check in when it was over.
Mahmoud walked out the doors of the former airport and approached with a friendly wave. Bashir noticed no sign of a limp or hurting foot. Mahmoud put his duffle bag in Bashir’s back seat, climbed inside the taxi, and the two men embraced.
“As-salamu ‘alaykum.”
“Wa’alaykumu salaam.”
Mahmoud gave him directions to an address near Gendarmenmarkt in the middle of the city. The temperature had warmed a bit and the sky was cloudy but bright. Berliners sensed, but could not yet feel, the first hint of spring. The streets were crowded and the drivers were rude, none admitting fault when traffic behavior broke down. Bashir had never understood how Berliners could stand each other.
“Mahmoud, brother, please tell me what this is all about. What is that van you picked up? Who was that man? Where are we going now?” He briefly took his eyes off the road and saw Mahmoud smile, a mischievous grin that told Bashir that some level of deception was at hand.
“We are doing something wonderful for our brothers in Syria.” Mahmoud glowed, elated with his role in the scheme. “That man who brought us the van has helped us. He works for a company that makes insecticides, chemicals that are desperately needed to grow crops in Syria. You know how unreliable the international aid organizations are. They promise food but don’t deliver. Trade has completely broken down. So they must grow their own. Last year most of the crops failed. They were unable to withstand the plague of insects. The insecticide will enable them to feed themselves.”
“That is wonderful,” replied Bashir. “Allahu Akbar.” He considered Mahmoud explanation but kept his eyes on the road and the cars trying to cut him off. You couldn’t give them an inch. “But why the secrecy?” he asked. “This should have been going on for years now.”
“Germany bans the export of such chemicals to Syria because of Assad’s use of chemical weapons. That man who is helping us is taking a great risk. He would be thrown in jail if he were caught.”
“Surely insecticides are different from chemical weapons.”
“What do I know about such things?” Mahmoud was smiling and Bashir caught only a sideways glimpse of his expression and had trouble interpreting it.
“And where are we going now?”
“To the van. I need to add a conservation agent. I hear it is simple and I have been given instructions.”
They arrived at Gendarmenmarkt and Mahmoud directed Bashir to a parking garage a few streets off the square. Bashir entered it and drove up two levels, where he saw the van Mahmoud had driven into the city. They parked nearby.
“I need a moment,” said Bashir. “If I don’t sign out, dispatch will send me for a pick up.” He got out his cell phone and punched in his code, bringing it to life.
Mahmoud got out, grabbed his duffle and waited next to the taxi.
Quickly, Bashir told himself. He was convinced that the situation was urgent and he needed to get word to Stirewalt or Adler. He could feel Mahmoud watching him from outside, so he maneuvered through his phone as quickly, discretely, and casually as possible. He found Stirewalt from his contact list, which he had listed simply with a “S,” and typed in a single exclamation point in the body of the message, so that the entirety of the text read “!”. The message wouldn’t tell them much, but it was sufficient get their attention. He was afraid to risk more. They would be ready to move when he contacted her again. He pocketed his phone and exited the taxi.
“All set,” he said.
Mahmoud fingered the van keys in his hand and walked to the van without a word. He opened the van’s rear door, climbed inside, and beckoned Bashir to follow. The third row seats had been removed, but there was still little room to move about. In addition to the two full-sized men, there were five metal barrels that looked almost like beer kegs. Mahmoud fiddled through his duffle, and pulled out two gas masks.
“For our protection, I am told.”
“This makes me uncomfortable, Mahmoud. Do you know what you are doing? And even if this is the right thing to do, it could b
e seen as otherwise. This seems to be a risk.”
“Some things more important than ourselves. You and I are no martyrs. But we have an opportunity to help and thus we must take some risks. The West has promised to help and so far they have done nothing. So we must do it ourselves.”
Bashir did not answer. He did not know what to think. Was it possible, what Mahmoud was saying? He doubted it.
They donned their masks and Mahmoud pulled out some device from his bag. He handed it to Bashir and pulled over one of the canisters. He took the device from Bashir, attached it on top of the sealed opening, and locked it into place. From his bag he pulled a vile of amber colored liquid and attached it to the top of the device. He locked that into place on the device and the liquid drained down through the device and into the canister.
Mahmoud gave instructions to move the canisters as he repeated the process. Bashir’s breath felt hot and wet in the gas mask and Mahmoud’s voice sounded as though he were under water. Bashir did as he was told, had handled each of the kegs, and within a few minutes the process was complete.
Mahmoud removed his gas mask and took a large breath of fresh air. Bashir did the same. “We are done.”
Bashir was relieved. He desperately wanted to leave, to report in.
“Please, Bashir, “put this in the front seat. Mahmoud handed him his duffle bag.
Bashir rose from his knees to a crouch and began to squeeze through the middle row of seats to the front.
He didn’t make it. He felt the prick of a needle in his neck, he slapped at it, but Mahmoud had already moved the syringe away. Bashir looked at him questioningly as his mind clouded into nothingness.
Chapter Eighteen
Rhys considered where things stood with the Berlitec investigation, did a rough cost-benefit analysis, and found little motivation to keep going. He had left Hohlbein’s apartment and did...nothing. He went home and sat in front of his coal oven, working it until the heat enveloped him and comforted his thoughts. He drank a beer from the bottle and then nursed a second one. Petrov’s threat was clear: leave it alone or wind up in a German jail. He thought of Karen, wondered what she would say. Bringing her killers to justice might be worth the risk, but he hadn’t made a lick of progress on that front.