Born to Die in Berlin: A Thriller

by Alex Carlson

  So a plane was waiting in Kaliningrad.

  What do you do with a plane that is all fueled up and ready to go? Smart thing to do would be to fly it to the gas—and Rhys was convinced they brought it from Rostock back to Berlin. Berlin’s Tegel Airport was too busy and as far as Rhys knew it didn’t authorize private flights. The new Berlin Brandenburg Airport hadn’t opened yet, even though the runways had been laid. Rhys didn’t doubt a pilot would be able to land in the dark without runway lights. Any pilot for this kind of thing would have military experience. He imagined the pilot doing it, dropping deep and fast over a darkened runway in the middle of a city until the plane’s descent smoothed out as it touched down. He knew Air Force pilots had done it every couple of minutes during the Berlin Air Lift. They—

  My god, it couldn’t be closer. He pulled out his phone and dialed Stirewalt. She answered after the first ring.

  “You mentioned Petrov and McClellum did some idiotic tour of Cold War Berlin,” said Rhys. It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes?”

  “Did they stop at Tempelhof?”

  “Yeah, they did. What—“

  Rhys hurried through an account of his interrogation of Hohlbein. He spelled out the chemical involved and how Hohlbein had told him that the insecticide could easily be weaponized.

  Stirewalt interrupted: “The SVR is capable of that, and I can probably even tell you who did it.”

  “They’re going to Tempelhof,” he said. “They had to have had a plane, probably in Kaliningrad, waiting for the stuff to arrive by boat. Petrov’s Plan B is to fly the plane to Berlin to pick it up. Petrov is familiar with Tempelhof. He has access. They’ll need just a minute to land, load it up, and take off again.”

  “Get over there. Colin and Hernandez will meet you there. Stop that plane, Rhys.”

  Tempelhof was directly south of Kreuzberg and it took Rhys just fifteen minutes to get to the terminal. His R75/5 was running smoothly, despite his aggressive riding. He darted through the city, hitting green lights, pushing yellow ones, and ignoring reds when he could. He stopped at one congested intersection, and when it was clear, he threw back the throttle and that same damn problem from days before happened. No acceleration. He released the throttle, eased it slowly back again and the bike accelerated without difficulty. Once he got it up to speed, he was again able to let it rip. Damned thing.

  Tempelhof’s abandoned terminal was located on Platz der Luftbrücke, Airlift Square, and he turned toward the main entrance. ZENTRALFLUGHAFEN was still written in large, dated letters on the building. As he approached, he realized he was basically in an empty parking lot and the main terminal was shuttered. He kept riding through the U-turn-shaped entrance as he tried to figure out how he’d get to the runway.

  He turned right out of the main entrance and rode along Columbia Damm, away from the terminal. He hoped to turn onto the airfield at the first possible opportunity. But he rode and rode and there were no right turns. He began losing patience as he passed businesses, a couple of baseball diamonds—the American Air Force had been stationed at Tempelhof—and a mosque. Once he got to an outdoor swimming pool, he took a chance, hopping the curb and driving through the pool’s grounds. The grass was hard, dead, and slick, and his street tires struggled to find grip. He gunned it between solitary trees through the grassy field only to find a fence that blocked him from the airfield. He spun the bike around and gunned it back to the street. He went further along Columbia Damm until he got to a residential area and found a bike path that pointed to the airfield.

  He weaved through the final barrier, designed only to slow cyclists so they didn’t hit unsuspecting pedestrians, and entered the airport’s massive open space. Once free, he rode hard until he got to the end of the runway, one of two parallel runways the airport had used. He was a damn long way from the terminal, a distance not appreciated when in a plane that covered the distance at great speed while landing or taking off. He punched the throttle—it worked perfectly this time—and headed toward the darkened terminal.

  The ghost airport was a dark spot in a city of light. In front of him, a cone of light extended from his headlight into the darkness. He sped full throttle toward the terminal, his speedometer over 100, his tachometer pushing 8,000 RPMs.

  The engine’s high pitch and the wind in his helmet drowned out the roar of the plane’s engines until it was almost even with him. When he finally heard it, he looked over his shoulder and saw the vague outline of a twin-turboprop plane descending without lights, the pilot navigating instead by onboard computer. The plane quickly overtook him on the other runway and touched down with the high-pitched sound of rubber hitting asphalt. It sped before him toward the darkened terminal.

  Rhys looked carefully ahead. In the distance, he saw the same dark sedan and van that had been in Rostock.

  He slowed to a stop. The R75 was low enough for him to flatfoot both feet, which he did as he pulled the Glock from its holster. He grabbed the gun by its barrel, leaned forward, and with a quick, forceful motion, he drove the gun’s grip into his headlight, shattering the glass and destroying the bulb.

  He dropped the bike into gear and accelerated into the darkness.

  The Sukhoi Su-80 slowed to a crawl and turned so that the distance from the van to the plane was short. The plane stopped. Every second counted. Petrov watched the copilot rise from is seat and open the door located directly behind the cockpit. He dropped a short stepladder and climbed down.

  “Get them loaded,” Petrov yelled over the ear-splitting whine of the engines. “I want the plane wheels up in three minutes.” One of his men opened the van and he and another grabbed the first drum, lifted it, and struggled to carry it to the plane. Two others grabbed the next drum.

  McClellum didn’t mind being ignored. He paced on the tarmac, taking pictures now and then with his cell phone. Dmitri probably would object, but Dmitri was busy barking at his men, and McClellum frankly no longer gave a damn what Petrov thought. He just wanted the night to be over. He had calmed down since Rostock, but he was still confused and Petrov’s assurances helped little.

  McClellum experienced some sort of sensory deprivation. Besides the noise from the propellers, it was dark. The only light came from the twin beams produced by the sedan’s headlights. The tarmac seemed like a fishbowl, with murkiness all around them. In the distance in each direction, the city glowed, and above the terminal he saw Berlin’s famed Fernsehturm, the only architectural structure that can be viewed from anywhere in the city. A red light flashed at the top of the 368-meter needle.

  It happened quickly. Out of the murky darkness McClellum saw a blur, a movement, a mere shape blocking the glow of the city far behind it. An object raced at them and, impossibly, it was already upon them. He froze, his eyes glued to the approaching object, and he realized it was a motorcycle flying across the tarmac without lights.

  Then he saw a flash. Or more precisely, three of them. He couldn’t hear the shots fired but the flashes were unmistakable. He hit the ground instinctively, tracking the motorcycle as it passed them and disappeared behind the plane’s fuselage.

  Rhys thanked God he was left-handed. With his right hand steady on the throttle, he carefully aimed at the plane’s windshield and steadily fired three single shots. The third one hit home and the glass cracked though it didn’t break. Rhys stood on the pegs just enough to slip the gun under his crotch and he sat on it as he secured control of the bike with both hands. The gun’s barrel was warm from firing, but not hot enough to burn. Crouched low, he buzzed around the plane’s wing and screeched to a stop, laying the bike down and diving behind it for cover. He reached for the gun that had fallen to the ground and aimed it in the general direction of plane and the men and vehicles behind it.

  As he had hoped, his arrival caused chaos. Two men dropped a canister and let it roll along the ground as they took cover. The pilot dove back into the plane and Rhys could see him fiddling with controls through the cockpit’s sid
e window. Petrov yelled orders to his minions, but Rhys couldn’t hear what he was saying and he doubted they could either.

  One of Petrov’s men bolted for the rolling canister and Rhys took aim and fired, hitting him high in the chest. He fell as the canister rolled to a stop.

  Rhys then heard the whine of the engines change pitch and the plane began a slow roll. The door was still open and Rhys had no way of knowing how many canisters had been loaded. He lifted his body off the ground, took a few powerful strides, and ran to the plane. He dove through the open door and crashed on the floor of the plane. He immediately scanned for threats and saw the pilot rising, a Makarov pistol in his hand. Rhys aimed and fired, hitting him in the head. The bullet travelled through the skull and its velocity pulled blood and brain matter across the windshield. The pilot’s body collapsed forward on the yoke.

  The plane was still moving, but the wheel was turned, so it did a slow, lazy circle and the open door now faced away from the threats. But Rhys knew he couldn’t stay there. He looked out the windows but could see nothing in the darkness, so he went to the door and took a leap of faith, jumping to the tarmac while trying to keep the plane between him and the guns.

  He stole a look under the fuselage and tried to locate anyone who might be trying to take his head off. He saw movement: Petrov, McClellum, and three other men running away from the vehicles toward the terminal. He had no idea how many guys might still be out there with him or where they were, but he figured there had to be at least a couple and would probably be crouched behind the sedan. He fired a couple of covering shots toward it and ran to the van. As he reached it, he felt two slugs slam into its side.

  He then felt more slamming, but it wasn’t the sudden impact of lead hitting metal. The sound and feel had less energy and was less sharp. It was coming from inside. He snuck a glance through the window and saw Bashir, bound and gagged, kicking his feet against the rear door. At least he looked full of life again. Actually, he looked full of piss and vinegar. Rhys carefully reached around the back of the van and opened the door. He scanned the area and leaned in. Bashir was alert and his eyes expressed a mixture of rage and panic. Rhys reassured him, trying to stay calm himself. He loosened the gag and then he pulled a knife from his belt scabbard and cut him free.

  “Stay down. Breathe. Relax. I’ll get you out of here.”

  Bashir said nothing. He sucked in air and moved to expedite the return of feeling to his limbs.

  A volley of shots hit the van and both men covered their heads instinctively. They were pinned. Rhys checked his clip. Seven shots left. He didn’t like the odds.

  “Bashir, we need to run. Don’t have a choice.”

  Bashir nodded and stretched out his legs as he tried to get his circulation flowing.

  “They’re crouched behind the car. We’ll run away from them, into the darkness. Try to keep the van between them and us and keep running for as long as possible. They just have handguns and despite what you may have seen in the movies, handguns are hard to aim and aren’t very accurate. Our chances are good if we just keep moving away and keep some space between each other.”

  Bashir nodded. He was eager to get away and got in position. He communicated that he was ready.

  He needn’t have been. Over the screaming jet engines, a high caliber rifle shot could be heard. Rhys looked and saw a body collapse to the ground, the head and arms extending beyond the trunk of the car. He heard another shot and another body fell.

  Hernandez is here.

  A third man behind the car broke for the terminal. He made it about twelve yards before another shot rang out and he flailed to the ground. Still living, he made a desperate attempt to drag himself away. Then his head exploded as a final shot echoed across the tarmac.

  Rhys looked hard and barely saw in the distance Hernandez on the terminal’s roof. He was waving in a long, slow motion. All clear.

  “Looks like we don’t have to make that run for it after all,” Rhys said to Bashir. “For what it’s worth, I’m not sure we would have made it.” He smiled sheepishly.

  Bashir collapsed, glad it was over.

  But Rhys was already thinking. Bashir is safe and the gas isn’t going anywhere. That’s two. Now it’s time for the third objective. McClellum. I’m not leaving without him, Rhys thought. Dead or alive.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  McClellum merely did as he was told. He would have followed orders from anyone—Petrov, Rhys, Stirewalt, the President, Bobo the Clown, anyone. He was incapable of initiative or independent thought and simply allowed Petrov to lead him.

  There were four of them: the two ambassadors, that man named Mahmoud, and a Russian, who hadn’t said more than a few words all night and had said them in Russian. McClellum followed the others through a door that brought them from the tarmac into what was clearly a baggage processing area. Dormant conveyer belts snaked through the space and stretched in various directions. Some rose through the ceiling into the level above, either connected to the ticket desks, where bags were dropped off, or the baggage claim, where they were picked up. It was dark. The few windows helped little because of the darkness outside; the only light came from exit signs above doors in the distance. The space smelled of dust and lubricant.

  “Follow me,” said Mahmoud, mainly to Petrov, but McClellum, of course, wouldn’t stray far. He was too afraid. McClellum couldn’t fathom how Mahmoud knew the building or had been able to access the door they had come through. “I’ll bring you to the refugee center and you can leave through the main entrance. You’ll be seen, but no one will recognize you, either of you.

  Petrov nodded. He seemed to appreciate Mahmoud’s competence and McClellum tried to understand their relationship. They ran across the cavernous space, weaving around and ducking under baggage belts and machinery. The space reminded McClellum of a scene from a Die Hard movie. They were headed for a door on the far side, toward the exit light.

  “McClellum!”

  The voice bellowed behind them. It wasn’t close, probably just inside the door they had come through. They froze and McClellum looked at Petrov, almost for guidance.

  “Ambassador, I’m sure your role in this is benign.” McClellum recognized Adler’s voice. “If I don’t get you out of here, one of two things is going to happen.” Adler paused, with the effect that they listened with anticipation. “Either they’ll kill you, or they’ll get you caught up in a scandal the likes of which you can’t possibly imagine. At best, you’d be recalled and be an embarrassment to the president. At worst, you’ll go to jail for treason.”

  McClellum looked to Petrov for explanation. Petrov dismissed Adler’s words with a flick of his hand. He turned his attention to the Russian with them and cocked his head, communicating that the man should take Adler down. The man pulled a gun from a holster and disappeared.

  Rhys hoped for a response, but he wasn’t even sure they were still in the area. He had left Bashir and paused only long enough to pick up a Makarov from one of the fallen Russians in case he needed additional shots. He had entered the building just a few minutes after the others and he couldn’t imagine they’d find their bearings in the darkness.

  He heard nothing but silence and feared he had lost them. But then the response came.

  “Your time is short, Mr. Adler.” It was Petrov. His voice was clear but it sounded very far away. “If I were you I would focus on saving yourself, not on the situation that you cannot influence. The ambassador and I are involved in something that a mere operative cannot possibly understand. You operate on the level of tactics. Leave the strategy to us.”

  So he was going to play it until the end, thought Rhys. Why? For McClellum’s benefit? Could McClellum be so stupid as to still believe what Petrov was telling him? He had to understand by now. Rhys ignored Petrov and addressed McClellum. “McClellum, you know Petrov’s full of shit. Walk away.”

  The response was a bullet two feet above his head. Splinters of concrete from the wall behind him sprink
led his neck and head. Rhys charged toward the flash, moving low and using a baggage mover as cover. His movement spooked the shooter, who fired again and turned to run.

  Rhys reacted with a trained two-handed double shot. The first shot hit the man in the shoulder, the second in the chest. The guy fell to the ground and lay in the unmistakable stillness of death.

  Mahmoud opened the exit door and ushered the two ambassadors through it. “Go up,” he said nodding to the stairs that led to the main level of the terminal.

  The three attacked the stairs two at a time and Mahmoud regretted the noise they made. The stairs were metal and the sound of their footsteps echoed through the stairwell and undoubtedly throughout the baggage handling room below. It was all Adler would need to locate them. They reached the top of the stairs and entered the silent baggage claim area. There was more light, from the terminal’s large front-facing windows, and they could see the distance they had to cover before reaching safety at the far end.

  “Wait here,” said Mahmoud. “I will stop him.” He disappeared, not back down the stairs but through a low opening through which checked luggage used to vanish behind the row of abandoned ticket booths.

  The sound was unmistakable. They were climbing stairs. Rhys looked about and saw in the distance a conveyor belt that reached up into the ceiling. It might be a shortcut, or it might lead in another direction. He hesitated a moment, deciding what to do. If he followed them up the stairs, he probably wouldn’t catch up to them. He ran to the conveyor belt and jumped on it, ascending until he reached the aperture to the level above.

  The bullet plowed into his right shoulder, knocking him back and causing him to roll down the conveyor belt. He fell off its side and slammed hard onto the ground below. The impact rattled his teeth and took his breath away. It all happened so suddenly; he wasn’t exactly sure what had happened. One moment he had been climbing the belt, the next he lay on the ground.