“That was quick,” Wally observed.
“Luck.” Shephard shrugged. He was studying the path made by his forefinger as it trailed across the surface of the ambassador's card table. “The truck belonged to Berlin's TV Channel Four. The two cameramen and the reporter who were supposed to be in it were found floating in the Spree last night. They'd been assigned to cover the Veep's speech. They never arrived.”
“So instead of renting a van to park under the Gate, 30 April stole one and killed its occupants. These guys weren't about to leave a paper trail.”
Shephards eyes flicked over to Caroline.
“Multiple murder increased their risks considerably. But it also covered their tracks more effectively. No rental documents, as in the Oklahoma City bombing or the hit on the World Trade Center. And being a real broadcast van, the truck looked far more plausible in place.”
“What about the medevac chopper?” Caroline asked. “Has anyone located that?”
“Possibly.” Shephard focused on his finger again. “Somebody parked a helicopter near the rail lines south of Templehof yesterday that's the old East Berlin airport and set it on fire.”
“Destroying any traces of prints or fibers,” Caroline said.
“Most of them. Yes.”
“Have any of the local hospitals reported a missing medevac pilot?” Wally asked.
“A young woman by the name of Karin Markhof,” Tom Shephard told him. “Still no trace of her. Either Markhof was paid to turn over the bird to 30 April and got out of town fast once the Brandenburg blew or she's lying dead somewhere.”
“She's dead.” Caroline said it without hesitation. “Krucevic leaves nothing to chance.”
“Then let's hope he screws up somewhere down the line. Because that's all we've got.”
Wally stroked his goatee, eyebrows furled like question marks. T. Hunter Price adjusted his tie. Dougherty looked from face to face like an eager puppy.
“Does the station here have any 30 April assets, Wally?” the ambassador inquired.
“A few, sir.”
“What's "a few" Wally? Exactly?”
“Two,” the Chief of Station conceded. “In the developmental stage.”
“Which means you've got squat,” muttered T. Hunter Price.
“We've got a woman who works in the Berlin office of VaccuGen, Krucevic's main front company,” Wally shot back. “She's not on the payroll, which means she hasn't been vetted, and I'm not at liberty to discuss her particulars. But one of my officers has been developing her for months.”
“And?”
“Fred is still trying to make contact.”
Price threw up his hands in mute eloquence.
“What about the other recruit?” Caroline asked.
“He's a different kettle offish. Brilliant, oddball, and an unreconciled Communist. Krucevic wants to own him, but our guy thinks Krucevic is poison. He cracks security systems for a living.”
“So how'd he come to us?” Caroline asked.
“He applied for an embassy job. As a security expert.”
“Fascinating,” bur bled T. Hunter Price.
“You just brought this crook in, I suppose, to discuss your mutually shady pursuits over a glass of Schultheiss. And in the process, you probably gave away the embassy's fiber optics and security installations, Wally, to no less a personage than 30 April's chief safecracker. I congratulate you, friend. I really do.”
“Horse pucky,” the station chief said. “I didn't interview him at the embassy.”
But he had flushed an angry red.
“Have you talked to him since the bombing?” Tom Shephard was rigid with interest.
“Last night. I didn't tell him why we wanted Krucevic.” Wally glanced around the table. “Nobody in Berlin knows for a fact that 30 April did the Brandenburg, much less the Vice President, so I made it a fairly general query. But my guy thinks Mian is headed for Hungary. Krucevic told him to get to Budapest and await instructions. I asked him nicely to keep us informed.”
Budapest, Caroline thought. I'm wasting my time here in Berlin.
“So this asset of yours is working for the terrorists.” Shephard was scowling.
“He's not an asset. He's a developmental.”
“Which means you're not paying him.”
“Not formally. No.”
“But you're considering placing him on your payroll. A borderline criminal who consorts with terrorists.”
“You want a terrorist asset, Tom, you've got to get your hands dirty.”
It was the oldest debate in the counterterrorism game: how to penetrate the organizations you pursued without adopting their methods. Most of the people at the CTC, Caroline thought, would agree that it was impossible. You could trace a terrorist's funds. You could blow up his training camps and operational bases.
But you could not learn his most private thoughts, his most diabolical schemes, without an ear in his private councils. That meant controlling one of his own.
Paying for terrorist treason. And that single fact almost guaranteed that someday, somebody in the halls of Congress or the pages of the Washington Post would accuse you of bankrolling a monster.
“Hungary,” the ambassador said thoughtfully. “It's a big place. But this is good, Wally. It's a start. I suggest you get on the horn to your opposite number in Pest and direct him to work his assets.”
“Yes, sir,” Wally said briefly. He did not remind Dalton that the secure phones were down.
“There must be a 30 April body somewhere in that city,” the ambassador said.
“We must get to him before Krucevic does.”
“Isn't there some way to prevent 30 April from entering Hungary?” Shephard asked. “The borders should have been closed as soon as the bomb went off yesterday.”
“They haven't been, and they won't be,” Dalton told him. “The President undertook to give Krucevic his freedom until Sophie Payne is recovered. Any sign of an international manhunt, we jeopardize her safety.”
“That can't go on indefinitely.”
“As far as our German friends' are concerned, I imagine it could. It serves their ends to admiration. Why close the borders, when the enemy is within? You of all people must know, Tom, that the enemy is the infidel Turk. He lives among us. He is to be punished for 30 April's crimes, while 30 April gets away with murder.”
“Which raises a few questions about Fritz Voekl,” Caroline observed, “and his commitment to fighting international terrorism.”
Dalton smiled at her regretfully.
“There are so many questions about Fritz Voekl, my dear. Questions that even I shall not put to him, I'm afraid. We need more information the kind ofinformadon that can be used to pressure him if we are to proceed from a position of strength. And now, if you'll excuse me,” the ambassador said with a general nod, “I must present my respects to the chancellor and his daughter. It is young Kiki's sixteenth birthday, and Ie tout Berlin will be raising a glass.”
Eight
Pristina, 2:13 p.m.
Enver Gordievic was startled awake at the first knock on his shanty's door. His heart pounded. He glanced first at Krystie, the baby, who was napping in the lower bunk; she stirred drowsily and began to wail. Then he looked toward the door. No windows in the hut, no way to know who stood there. But it must be faced. Even if it was Simone.
He took the three steps at a run and pulled open the flimsy piece of wood. The Canadian doctor was framed in the doorway, her face lined with weariness, all her heart in her eyes. Alexis —
“You'd better come,” she said. And he didn't ask any questions, just gathered up the little one in her blanket and raced across the churned mud to the medical tent. Simone was there before him, by the side of the cot where his daughter had lain through the early hours of morning, an IV taped into her small wrist. Her hand was on Alexis's forehead, her stethoscope was searching the little girl's chest. His daughter looked spent; her eyes were closed. She was not, Enver thought, even moving. He waited, holding his breath, for Simone to shake her head, to draw the sheet up over his daughters golden hair — for his world to crack apart like a shattered glass.