But time and facts were two things she lacked in the midst of Eric's disaster.
She'd have to clutch at the puzzle pieces before they materialized, trust her gut as well as her brain.
“Not that I mean you, Caroline,” Wally amended, “I remember Mad Dog. I know what you're capable of. A threat and a grenade, right when it counts. Now that's, moving off a dime.”
She had. She had never forgotten what drove her during the months of counterterrorism training, nor how the momentary madness had felt. That knowledge was like an uneasy knife pricking at her brain. The force she could not control. Her demon.
She shook off Wally's words and said, “Who've you got working the terrorist account?”
“In the station? Fred Leicester. You know Fred?”
“The name. We've never crossed paths.”
“He was out trolling the streets today in the hope of turning up a lead.”
In a plumber's van full of electronics, probably. Leicester had gone through six months of tradecraft training at the Farm with Eric, tailing unsuspecting tourists through the streets of Williamsburg, Virginia. What she knew of Fred took about twenty words to say: He was a well-meaning putz. He believed the CIA was the free world's last, best hope. And his tradecraft was shit. Fred was persona non grata waiting to happen, the worst fate that could be visited on a case officer's career. When you were PNG'd, the world took notice. Your diplomatic immunity was stripped and you were exposed as a spy in your host country's newspapers. You went home in disgrace, your cover permanently blown. And in most cases, you never worked abroad again.
“Fred is the one developing our girl in the VaccuGen office,” Wally said. “And he follows the local Palestinians. There's always a floating crap game where the rag heads are concerned. Paul — the kid you met today — does a few jobs now and then. Dead drops, brush passes .. . It'll never be Berlin in the Cold War, but its good experience.”
“So you've got some terrorist assets here.”
“Not a whole lot to speak of.” Even with Caroline, Wally operated on a need-to-know basis. “Most of that stuff, frankly, has been handled out of Bonn and the Frankfurt base up until now. Mad Dog, what are you looking for?”
“Mahmoud Sharif.”
“Sharif?”
“Yeah. Palestinian. Bomb tech. Internationally known criminal. He wouldn't happen to be a volunteer, would he?”
“A controlled asset? Sharif? Are you crazy?”
“Just curious.”
He shook his head.
“Not that it wouldn't be the coup of coups to recruit him, don't get me wrong. But Sharif'd probably slit his own throat before he'd betray Allah.”
“A true believer, huh?”
“Well, there are true believers and then there are fanatics. Mahmoud's not dumb enough to blow himself up for the glory of the jihad, Mad Dog. He just makes the bombs and lets the fanatics smuggle 'em on the planes.”
“How unsporting. By karmic law, every bomb maker should be required to self-destruct with one of his own devices.”
“Sharif's been on pretty good behavior lately. Works his carpentry business during the day, runs a sculpture gallery over in the Tacheles by night.”
“The what?”
“Tacheles.” Wally said it with relish. “Isn't that a great word? Yiddish, for 'let's get down to business.”
“Mahmoud Sharif works in a place with a Yiddish name? Jesus.”
“It's the abandoned building on Oranienburger Strasse. You've seen it size of a shopping mall, derelict ever since the war. Cafes, experimental art, nightclubs tres nouveau, tres hip, even for hip Berlin. The concerts in summertime practically blow this whole quarter away.”
“And he owns a sculpture gallery. That's got to be a front. I bet he's running arms or drugs out of there.”
“He's a reformed individual, our Mahmoud. He's got kids to consider.” Wally's voice was heavy with sarcasm. “But why the interest in Sharif, Carrie? He can't be involved with the Payne kidnapping. No Palestinian would do a job for Mian Krucevic.”
“His name turned up in DESIST.” Wally set down his beer bottle.
“Turned up how?”
“I don't know. Cuddy Wilmot said his Berlin phone number tracked with 30 April.”
Wally whistled.
“Hizballah and the neo-Nazis. I don't believe it, Caroline. Sharif did not take out the Brandenburg.”
“Some link must be there. The computer found it.”
“Then the computer's wrong. It's happened before.”
“But somebody with knowledge and skill made the Gate's device, Wally. This was a surgical hit. Most of the surrounding buildings are intact. You don't get that with a barrel of fertilizer and kerosene.”
“No. You don't. But neither do you walk up to Mahmoud and say, 'Hey, brother, done any jobs for the infidel lately?'”
“There are subtler ways of gathering information.”
“Maybe you should run this by Shephard. He's got good ties to the BKA the Bundesknminalamt, the German federal police. Maybe they could tap Sharif's phones. They can do it legally now, did you know that?”
Caroline nodded. For five decades the German constitution had forbidden wiretaps, a reaction to the Gestapo persecution of the Nazi era. That had changed a few years ago, when German prosecutors voiced their frustration at being denied the routine evidence a hundred other countries collected on suspected criminals.
Wiretaps.
With a surge of vertigo, Caroline felt the broad plank floor of Wally's living room careen upward. She'd just handed Wally Mahmoud Sharif — whose phone lines might lead directly to Eric. Stupid, stupid.
Dare would never forgive her. She pressed a hand to her forehead, willing the exhaustion of jet lag to recede.
“Are you sure you want to share this stuff with the BKA?” she asked.
“You mean DESIST? We probably won't. We can offer up Sharif for other reasons. But I'll let Tom handle that. He's pretty used to working liaison. Which reminds me. You'll see Tom tomorrow at the Interior Ministry. Bombing meeting. I'll pick you up at the Hyatt at ten-thirty.”
“You might want to check with Scottie Sorensen first,” Caroline suggested feebly.
“About the wiretapping, I mean. Just to be sure. I wouldn't want to end — run Scottie's authority.”
“Okay.” From the sound of Wally's voice, he was humoring her and trying not to feel annoyed. It was rare for an analyst to second-guess the station chief. “What exactly is worrying you, Mad Dog? The BKA are pretty good at intercepts, believe me. Makes you wonder how often they practiced under the old law.”
The floorboards steadied, her vertigo receded.
“Who are they tapping these days? Gastarbeiters?”
He laughed brusquely.
“Don't need wiretaps for them. Guest workers have no citizenship rights. Under the Voekl program of repatriation, you just frame 'em and deport 'em as fast as you can.”
“You really don't like the chancellor, do you, Wally?”
“What can I say, Carrie? I don't trust Voekl's politics. And he's a dangerous man.”
“Dangerous how?”
Wally took a pull on his beer.
