The Silent Man

have called me directly, but he must have been afraid to take the chance.”

“But he doesn’t know where we are. They don’t know me or you. They can’t track us here. We have plenty of time.” Bashir hoped his voice didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. In his head he heard a clock ticking, so loudly that for a moment he wondered if it was real. The moment of decision was here, far sooner than he’d expected. He wasn’t sure whom he feared more, the Americans or the men beside him.

“If they’ve found him, they’re only one step from us. We have to get the gadget done as quickly as possible, get it out of here.”

“Can you reach him? Find out whether he’s been taken?”

Nasiji laid a hand on Bashir’s bicep and squeezed, his fingers digging in as though he wanted to snap Bashir’s arm in half. “Stick to your forge, Doctor. Let me worry about this.”

“Yes, Sayyid. But what about the beryllium? I thought you said—”

“If we don’t move now, we’re going to lose everything. Anyway, we’ll try for the State of the Union.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, tomorrow.” Nasiji leaned back, opened his eyes, looked Bashir up and down. “Is something wrong, Bashir? Losing your nerve?”

“You asked me that before, and the answer’s the same: no. Now, take your hand off my arm so I can get back to work.”

“Good,” Nasiji said. “I’m glad there’s some fight in you yet. God willing, we’ll finish this pit tonight, get the pieces together, be ready to travel in the morning.”

“God willing.” And then what?

30

I need to see you.” The voice was Bernard’s. “Now.”

“Where are you?” Wells said.

“I have your money. The final three million. It’s yours. I don’t want you to hurt my family.”

“Wire transfer it like the two.”

“It’s cash. I must hand it over face-to-face.”

“BND watching you? You setting me up?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“Let’s meet somewhere nice and public.”

“That wouldn’t be safe for either of us. You want your money, come to the Stern Hotel. Room 317.”

“Three-one-seven?”

“On the Reeperbahn.” Bernard hung up.

This meeting would end badly, Wells knew. He’d done too good a job scaring Bernard. Now Bernard thought he had only one way to be sure that Wells wouldn’t come after his family.

Wells stripped to his gray T-shirt and pulled on the bulletproof vest he carried and put a heavy wool sweater on over it. The vest offered limited protection, but it was better than nothing. He strapped his shoulder holster around his sweater and tucked in his Glock and hid the holster with a loose-fitting leather jacket. Cold weather made carrying pistols easy. He headed for the door, reconsidered, grabbed his phone, called Shafer.

“At the Flughafen already?” Shafer said.

“The Germans know where Bernard is?”

“Not at the moment.” Disgust dripped across the Atlantic. “So the associate director of the BND just informed me. Not at the moment.”

“I do.” Wells explained the call he’d just received.

“Good. The BND can bring him in.”

“I’ll get him.”

“Thought you were done freelancing. Let the Germans handle him.”

“He’s expecting me. He sees anybody else coming, he’ll jump out the window. I show, it’ll slow him down. He’s still not sure what side I’m on.”

“The best way to do this is with a tac team and some flash-bangs.”

“That worked great in Munich.”

“Nineteen seventy-two was a long time ago. The Germans have learned a few things. You’re not the only one who can do this, John. You keep making the same mistake. Definition of insanity and all that.”

“Save me the fortune-cookie wisdom. I’ll bring him in, get back to Langley before tomorrow morning.”

“You planning to fly commercial or just flap your cape and go?”

“Funny, Ellis.”

“I have to call the BND. But I’ll give you an hour. Plenty of time to get there.”

“Two hours.”

“Two hours.”

The late-afternoon Hamburg traffic was heavy, and Wells wished he had left the Mercedes at the hotel and taken the U-Bahn. Forty minutes passed before he reached the Reeperbahn, quiet and gray in the twilight. The long cold winter nights were enough to keep even the most debased whoremongers at home. On the south side of the avenue, he saw the Stern—

Surrounded by German police cars and dozens of officers in riot gear. Wells looked twice, hoping that the cops were there coincidentally to bust an unlicensed brothel or a heroin-dealing kebob shop. But as he watched, three men in helmets and face shields ran into the hotel. Shafer hadn’t given him two hours. Shafer hadn’t given him five minutes.

Wells parked the Mercedes in an alley off the Reeperbahn and grabbed his sat phone.

“Tell me I’m not seeing this.”

“I had to, John. Their country, their op.”

“Their op? Who found him? Who’s been playing him?”

“What are you gonna do with him? You can’t arrest him. And they say no renditions.” A delivery truck turned into the alley behind the Mercedes and honked, a quick double-tap, move along. “He’s a German national, he stays on German soil. I promised them.”

“You promised me, Ellis. Two hours.” Wells hung up. He would deal with Shafer later. Betrayal and betrayal and betrayal. He jumped out of the Mercedes, ignoring the shouts of the delivery driver, and dodged traffic as he ran across the Reeperbahn, heading for the armored police van parked outside the hotel’s entrance.

“Halt! Halt!” A big man in a black flak jacket, Polizei emblazoned across the chest in white, trotted at Wells, right hand hovering over the pistol on his hip. Wells slowed.

“I need to talk to the agent in charge, whoever’s running the show—”

“You are American?” the officer said. “This is a police action. Very serious. You must leave.”

“I know the guy in there,” Wells said desperately. “I gave him to you.”

The officer put a heavy hand on Wells’s shoulder and steered him away from the hotel.

“Listen, my name’s John Wells—”

From above, the thump of a flash-bang grenade, and then another. Wells and the officer swung around, watching as a window blew at the west end of the hotel, three stories up, glass pouring like confetti toward the pavement, a pair of hookers screaming and shielding their mascaraed eyes—

Then a single gunshot.

The officer pushed Wells to the street, landed on top of him, 250 pounds of German cop protecting him. Wells barely restrained himself from rolling the guy over and punching him in the face. “Let me up.”

“When it is safe.”

“It’s safe now,” Wells said, staring down at the Reeperbahn pavement, cigarette butts and crumpled beer cans. “Unless that guy up there can shoot when he’s dead.”

The officer rolled over and Wells stood. A team of medics ran into the hotel, carrying a stretcher and a