a baseball cap. They paid the Lada no heed as they walked past, deep in conversation, and Caitlin held up her hand to forestall a question from Mirsaad. The presence of the other two might prove an inconvenience if Fabia Shah had taken in lodgers or had family staying. It was very common for extended families to squeeze themselves into the tiny one-and two-bedroom apartments. But they stopped and said their good-byes about fifty yards down the street as the man and woman disappeared into a large whitewashed apartment block on the left. Fabia waved them off and resumed the marching stride Caitlin had noted earlier in the day. A forceful gait from a woman emanating a very strong 'don't-fuck-with-me' vibe.
Good for you, Mrs. Shah, she thought to herself.
Mirsaad watched her, too. A professional in his own right, he said nothing until the woman had entered her tenement at the far end of the street.
'Okay,' Caitlin said. 'That'll do us for now. Let's get you safely home.'
He started the car and drove toward Fabia's place, looking for a spot to perform a U-turn, but a line of angle- parked cars ran the length of the street, blocking the maneuver. It did give Caitlin a chance to scope out the target address as they drove past. Another blank-faced, grimy tenement looking out on the world through small square windows, about half of them dark.
Mirsaad took them around to the left at the end of the road, and another quick left took them back up to Hermannstrasse, the main road back toward the Jordanian's apartment. Within a minute they were approaching the lines of stalls and makeshift markets through which they had driven that morning. The place still hummed with the same level of energy, but it was now all directed toward breaking down and putting away displays, trestle tables, racks of clothes, and piles of cardboard boxes. Street vendors pushed handcarts through the controlled chaos, calling their wares, pushing for a few last euros before their customers finished packing and took themselves off to worship.
'Caitlin, please,' said the reporter. He was almost pleading with her now. 'I would ask you to reconsider your plan to come back alone. Bret will never forgive me if anything happens to you. There are bands of young men who rove these streets at night. Dignity Patrols they call themselves. They are looking for women just like you. Women they would teach a lesson to.'
The car passed out of the oppressive patchwork quilt of tenements and into the small green belt to the south of Neukolln at last. Caitlin turned in her seat to face Mirsaad.
'Sadie, I'm not going to bullshit you. What I have to do tonight is going to be dangerous. But you have to believe me when I tell you it'd be worse if you came along. I know what I'm doing. This is where my talents shine, buddy. But if they shine too brightly, people get burned. I don't want you to get hurt. You've done me a great favor today. I needed you. But now I need you to back off and trust me, in fact, to forget about me and this day altogether. Like I was never here.'
Mirsaad frowned as they passed by an Islamic culture center between Thomasstrasse and Jonasstrasse. From the uncovered heads of the many unaccompanied women gathering on the footpath outside, laughing and talking happily, it was most likely a reformist operation. He shook his head sadly.
'I fear, Caitlin, that you are much more than a police officer.'
She said nothing. An eloquent response in itself.
'Well, you have my number. If you need help, please do not give it a thought. Just call me and I will come as quickly as I can, but… you know, with the children and my wife to think of…'
'It's your children and wife I am thinking of,' Caitlin said. By eleven-thirty in the evening the streets were almost empty. Caitlin parked in a deserted multilevel garage a good five miles from Neukolln. She hauled a smart phone out of her kit and spent some time typing up a report for Dalby, which she dispatched via an encrypted link to Berlin Control. The file wiped itself from the phone after transmission. Her own mission brief she covered quickly, noting that she had located Baumer's mother and would question her at the first opportunity. The bulk of her transmission, however, detailed her impressions of how much the economy of the shariatown relied on goods obviously looted from the United States. Given the fighting in New York and the resources Echelon and the other agencies were devoting to anti-piracy operations, she knew it would be of interest.
So much interest, it turned out, that the phone buzzed in her jacket pocket about ten minutes after she'd zapped off the data package. Caitlin keyed in the security code and waited while the device exchanged encryption sets with the retransmission facility at Berlin Control. After a final series of bleeps and bloops she heard Dalby in the earpiece.
'Got your message,' he said. 'Most interesting, I must say. We knew a lot of the product you saw was available on the continent, but not in the significant concentrations you found. Any chance you might look further into the relevant supply chains for us?' he asked. 'At your end, I mean.'
Caitlin frowned. 'I could do that,' she said, taking care to remain aware of her surroundings while she spoke in vague generalities with her handler. The call was encoded with military-grade encryption, but there was no sense taking chances. 'I do have other purchases to make while I'm here, though. They remain my top priority.'
'Of course. Of course,' Dalby said. 'It's just that we've been asked to pay particular attention to this market, given what's happened of late, and you are well positioned to do that for us. Management and our offshore partners insist.'
'I see,' said Caitlin. 'I'll do what I can, then.'
'Good lass,' Dalby replied. 'Talk soon.'
The connection was severed at his end. Caitlin sat there, fuming and trying to get her anger under control. They had sent her out here, undeclared, a deniable asset, and now they wanted to retask her onto a basic intelligence-gathering job that some desk Johnny from the embassy could handle. She was so pissed off that she had to remind herself not to lose situational awareness. The parking garage was empty and looked like it had not been used in a long time, with a lot of rubbish and dead leaf matter lying in pools of dank water all around her car. But that did not mean she was alone there.
She checked her watch. Coming up on midnight. Time to move. Were she in London, she could have relied on the curfew to keep any innocent bystanders out of harm's way. But in Berlin, even though it was eerily quiet compared to her memories of the city, there were still a few groups of young people here and there, and she couldn't immediately mark them all down as hostile. She took a long, looping approach to Fabia Shah's apartment, driving out to the eastern edge of the airport and creeping into Mahlowerstrasse via a street lined with dead trees that ran past a sports field at the northeastern corner of Tempelhof. Like most open spaces in Berlin, it had been dug up and converted to market gardens, with rows of tomato stakes and cornstalks poking up through a light ground mist, contrasting with the stark, leafless branches of all the trees that had died in the pollution storms back in '03.
She parked the BMW under an elm with at least some scattered surviving foliage and killed the engine. She was dressed as before, mostly in black, but had discarded the head scarf borrowed from Mirsaad. A few lights burned here and there and the flickering blue-green shadow play of television screens illuminated a few more windows, but given the two thousand or more people all living within a minute's walk of Fabia Shah, the place was deathly quiet. Just how the Dignity Patrols liked it, she supposed.
Caitlin waited ten minutes behind the X5's tinted glass, one of the Russian machine pistols within easy reach on the passenger seat. A couple of lights flicked out while she maintained her vigil, and one of the late-night TV addicts finally gave up and went to bed. Just after twelve-thirty she moved, holstering the automatic with its twin in the combat harness under her leather jacket and taking a set of lock picks from the small storage bin between the front seats. She set the car's defenses and stepped out onto the grass footpath, closing the door softly behind her. Less than a minute later she was through the front door of the block where Fabia had been living four years ago, and within another a minute she had picked the lock on the letter box bearing a small handwritten name tag: SHAH.
A gas bill and a flyer from a shoe shop personally addressed to Baumer's mother lay uncollected inside.
Caitlin took a few seconds to listen to the building, sending her finely honed senses out along hard echoing corridors, up stairwells, past doors secured by metal grilles. She faintly heard two babies crying and a couple deep in argument. A television droned on somewhere. Repeats of Star Trek dubbed into German to judge by the faint strains of the famous theme music she was able to hear.
But there appeared to be nobody moving about. Nobody lying in wait.
She glided up a set of stairs to her left, empty-handed but ready to go gunshot. On the third floor, she ghosted along the hallway until reaching the right door. Heavy steel bars protected the entrance, but the lock was a
