They motored through a big intersection on Hermannstrasse and made the turn she had pointed out. Mahlower was relatively short and home to just six apartment blocks, three on each side. Caitlin had him pull over and park.
"This woman we saw today, she is somehow connected to the attack on you, on Bret?"
Caitlin shook her head. "No. Not directly. But she knows somebody who almost certainly was, and for now she's the best link I have to him. He came back here when he got out of jail awhile ago. I'm willing to take a bet she's either seen him or heard from him. It's a start. That's all."
"She is his girlfriend?" he asked dubiously. "Such arrangements are frowned upon here, you know."
"No," Caitlin said. "His mother."
"Ah, I see."
Mirsaad seemed satisfied with that. After all, it wasn't too far removed from the way he might go about tracking a difficult contact for a story. If you can't find them, find the people around them.
"So should we not we go back to the cafe and follow her?" he asked.
Caitlin smiled.
"No. I have the last known addresses for her. Residential and work. That office has moved, but she moved with it. She was living in a council flat down the end of this street as of three years ago. My best information is that she's still there. Makes sense. She hasn't gone anywhere else. She'll walk past in a few minutes if she is there. Fabia is a tough old bird, but even she won't linger long after dark on her own. We can wait. Besides, there's not really enough road traffic to hide in if we had to follow her."
Caitlin dimly registered a call to prayer somewhere outside, muted by the closed windows of the little Lada. Here and there she could see groups of people, some small gatherings and others quite numerous, making their way into local prayer rooms. When she had last stalked Baumer, she'd built up an encyclopedic knowledge of Neukolln's ethnic and religious topography. But she had enjoyed much greater freedom of movement back then, and so many things had changed in the intervening time. Thousands more residents had flooded in, for a start, refugees from both France and the charred wastelands of the Middle East, making the already cramped suburb almost intolerably overcrowded. There was very little chance that Fabia would have given up her small but precious council flat.
"So why not just talk to her now, when she walks past?" Mirsaad asked.
"Now is not the time, Sadie. I just need to confirm she's here. Then we're going back to your place. You have my thanks and your marching orders. I'm afraid when I come back in here tonight, I'll be coming on my own."
"But this is madness," he protested, turning his body toward her in the cramped confines of the car. He had to release the seat belt to do so. "You have seen how it is here. You cannot hope to move around unaccompanied. For you it will end badly. Very badly."
"Not for me, buddy," she assured him as movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention. It was Fabia, walking with a woman who was wrapped up in a dull gray ankle-length coat and escorted by a middle-aged man in 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."