"It shall be as you say," Ahmed Musa Matwalli responded respectfully. He killed his phone. It was a cloned phone, bought from a street thief for that one purpose, and then he tossed it into the river Tevere — the Tiber — off the Ponte Sant'Angelo. It was a standard security measure for speaking with the great commander of the Organization, whose identity was known to but a few, all of whom were among the most faithful of the Believers. At the higher echelons, security was tight. They all studied various manuals for intelligence officers. The best had been bought from a former KGB officer, who had died after the sale, for so it had been written. Its rules were simple and clear, and they did not deviate from them a dot. Others had been careless, and they'd all paid for their foolishness. The former USSR had been a hated enemy, but its minions had never been fools. Only unbelievers. America, the Great Satan, had done the entire world a favor by destroying that abortion of a nation. They'd done it only for their own benefit, of course, but that, too, must have been written by the Hand of God, because it had also served the interests of the Faithful, for what man could plot better than Allah Himself?
CHAPTER 19
BEER AND HOMICIDE
The flight into Munich was silky smooth. German customs were formal but efficient, and a Mercedes-Benz cab took them to the Hotel Bayerischer.
Their current subject was somebody named Anas Ali Atef, reportedly an Egyptian by nationality, and a civil engineer by education, if not by profession. Five feet nine inches or so, 145 pounds, clean-shaven. Black hair and dark brown eyes, supposed to be skilled at unarmed combat and a good man with a gun, if he had one. He was thought to be a courier for the opposition, and also worked to recruit talent — one of whom, for certain, had been shot dead in Des Moines, Iowa. They had an address and a photo on their laptops. He drove an Audi TT sports car, painted battleship gray. They even had the tag number. Problem: He was living with a German national named Trudl Heinz, and was supposedly in love with her. There was a photo of her, too. Not exactly a Victoria's Secret model, but not a skank, either — brown hair and blue eyes, five feet three inches, 120 pounds. Cute smile. Too bad, Dominic thought, that she had questionable taste in men, but that was not his problem.
Anas worshipped regularly at one of the few mosques in Munich, which was conveniently located a block from his apartment building. After checking in and changing their clothes, Dominic and Brian caught a cab to that location and found a very nice Gasthaus—a bar and grill — with outside tables from which to observe the area.
"Do all Europeans like to sit on the sidewalk and eat?" Brian wondered.
"Probably easier than going to the zoo," Dominic said.
The apartment house was four stories, proportioned like a cement block, painted white with a flat but strangely barnlike roof. There was a remarkably clean aspect to it, as though it was normal in Germany for everything to be as pristine as a Mayo Clinic operating room, but that was hardly cause for criticism. Even the cars here were not as dirty as they tended to be in America.
"Was darf es sein?" the waiter asked, appearing at the table.
"Zwei Dunkelbieren, bitte," Dominic replied, using about a third of his remaining high-school German. Most of the rest was about finding the Herrnzimmer, always a useful word to know, in any language.
"American, yes?" the waiter went on.
"Is my accent that bad?" Dominic asked, with a limp smile.
"Your speech is not Bavarian, and your clothes look American," the waiter observed matter-of-factly, as though to say the sky was blue.
"Okay, then two glasses of dark beer, if you please, sir."
"Two Kulmbachers, sofort," the man responded and hurried back inside.
"I think we just learned a little lesson, Enzo," Brian observed.
"Buy some local clothes, first chance we get. Everybody's got eyes," Dominic agreed. "Hungry?"
"I could eat something."
"We'll see if they have a menu in English."
"That must be the mosque our friend uses, down the road a block, see?" Brian pointed discreetly.
"So, figure he'll probably walk this way…?"
"Seems likely, bro."
"And there's no clock on this, is there?"
"They don't tell us 'how,' they just tell us 'what,' the man said," Brian reminded his brother.
"Good," Enzo observed as the beer arrived. The waiter looked to be about as efficient as a reasonable man could ask. "Danke sehr. Do you have a menu in English?"
"Certainly, sir." And he produced one from an apron pocket as though by magic.
"Very good, and thank you, sir."
"He must have gone to Waiter University," Brian said as the man walked away again. "But wait till you see Italy. Those guys are artists. That time I went to Florence, I thought the bastard was reading my mind. Probably has a doctorate in waitering."
"No inside parking at that building. Probably around back," Dominic said, coming back to business.
"Is the Audi TT any good, Enzo?"
"It's a German car. They make decent machines over here, man. The Audi isn't a Mercedes, but it ain't no Yugo, either. I don't know that I've ever seen one outside of Motor Trend. But I know what they look like, kinda curvy, slick, like it goes fast. Probably does, with the autobahns they have here. Driving in Germany can be like running the Indy 500, or so they say. I don't really see a German driving a slow car."
"Makes sense." Brian scanned the menu. The names of the dishes were in German, of course, but with English subtitles. It looked as though the commentary was for Brits rather than Americans. They still had NATO bases here, maybe to guard against the French rather than the Russians, Dominic thought with a chuckle. Though, historically, the Germans didn't need much help from that direction.
"What do you wish to have, mein Herrn?" the waiter asked, reappearing as though transported down by Scottie himself.
"First, what is your name?" Dominic asked.
"Emil. Ich heisse Emil."
"Thank you. I'll have the sauerbraten and potato salad."
Then it was Brian's turn. "And I'll have the bratwurst. Mind if I ask a question?"
"Of course," Emil responded.
"Is that a mosque down the street?" Brian asked, pointing.
"Yes, it is."
"Isn't that unusual?" Brian pushed the issue.
"We have many Turkish guest workers in Germany, and they are also Mohammedans. They will not eat the sauerbraten or drink the beer. They do not get on well with us Germans, but what can one do about it?" The waiter shrugged, with only a hint of distaste.
"Thank you, Emil," Brian said, and Emil hurried back inside.
"What does that mean?" Dominic wondered.
"They don't like 'em very much, but they don't know what to do about it, and they're a democracy, just like we are, so they have to be polite to 'em. The average Fritz in the street isn't all that keen on their 'guest workers,' but there's not much real trouble about it, just scuffles and like that. Mainly bar fights, so I'm told. So, I guess the Turks have learned to drink the beer."
"How'd you learn that?" Dominic was surprised.
"There's a German contingent in Afghanistan. We were neighbors — our camps, like — and I talked some with the officers there."
"Any good?"
"They're Germans, bro, and this bunch was professionals, not draftees. Yeah, they're pretty good," Aldo assured him. "It was a reconnaissance group. Their physical routine is tough as ours, they know mountains pretty good, and they are well drilled at the fundamentals. The noncoms got along like thieves, swapped hats and badges a lot. They also brought beer along with their TO and E, so they were kinda popular with my people. You know, this beer is pretty damned good."