Collateral (Tier One #6)

Bistro at the Hotel Grenzfall

Berlin, Germany

1745 Local Time

Professor Erich Habicht glanced at the woman sitting alone at one of the outdoor dining tables. She was looking away from him, which had happened each time he’d glanced at her table and also when he’d first spied her following him on campus yesterday. Her clothes were different from the last time he’d seen her, as was her hair, but this was definitely the same woman.

And that was a problem.

He had spent most the last four years, seven months, and eleven days teaching theoretical physics at Technische Universität Berlin, or TU Berlin, as it was known. Entropy and quantum mechanics was his specialty. But how could one express in equations the truly cold and nefarious nature of entropy? It was the great disintegrator of order. The universe’s original serial killer—a relentless hunter that always and eventually ended every living thing. Cells age and fail. The organs they are part of lose their fight, until the entire organism—the ultimate conductor of the orchestrated battle against entropy—falls into randomness in the form of death and decay. All systems, be they natural or man-made, eventually succumb to disorder. He had come to accept this, and to accept that life was nothing more than a concerted effort to fight entropy. To persist and survive requires that energy be put into the system . . .

In his other life—in what he slowly found harder and harder to remember was his real life—the phenomenon had a different name. Entropy was a term for philosophers, chemists, and real physicists; in the world of spies and spycraft, complacency was the killer. Today, the Zeta known in Berlin as Professor Erich Habicht would let neither complacency nor entropy take his life. He would bring order to chaos, which would require the expenditure of a hefty energy toll. But he didn’t care, because for the first time in years he felt alive again.

He tipped back the last of his beer and nodded to the hostess as he exited the bar through the street-side door, stepping down onto Ackerstraße and turning right. It was only a few paces to the corner of Bernauer Straße, and he chose the corner that would cross north—because the crossing light had just turned red. There was no traffic, but he waited patiently—as most native Berliners would because Berliners loved order above all things. Across Bernauer Straße sat an open corner lot with a lone, antiquated guard tower, part of the Berlin Wall Memorial that stretched on in both directions—an enduring Cold War reminder of what Berlin had once been.

Regrettably, there was no car at the corner whose window reflection he could use to check behind him as the pedestrian light turned green and he began to cross.

No matter. She won’t be there. Not yet.

It struck him that he’d had this thought in German—something that was beginning to happen regularly as the legend slowly consumed him from the inside—like the aliens in the old American film. Eventually, he feared, he would become Professor Erich Habicht and lose all sight of the way back.

The once and future spy walked slowly north, taking his time, enjoying the cool of the evening, and occasionally checking his six in the side mirrors of cars parked along the road. Three blocks north, he came to the corner of Brunnenstraße, stepped from the curb, then stopped as if distracted by a phone vibrating in his pocket. He turned to step back onto the curb as he pulled the phone from his overcoat and placed it to his ear.

“Hallo . . .? Ja, das ist Herr Habicht. Wer is das, bitte?” he said to his imaginary caller.

Sweeping his gaze across the street, he spotted her—standing just beyond the newsstand at the corner, laughing. Phone pressed to her ear, she stepped up to the newsstand and bought a magazine.

“Wir solten morgen sprechen, okay?” he said, keeping up the charade. “Ja, ja. Danke Sehr, Fraulein Schimmler.”

He sighed as if put upon—an anticipated rendezvous now cancelled—and returned the phone to his pocket. Then he looked in both directions, searching for the rest of her team while feigning checking the road for traffic. He tapped his hand on his thigh, as if uncertain what to do now that he didn’t need to meet whoever Fraulein Schimmler might be, then shrugged and turned north, toward Humboldthain Park with its thick trees and narrow trails.

I will lure her there and take her. If she is an agent I will kill her . . .oh, how good it will be to operate again. And with my cover blown, I will finally have an excuse to return to Russia for reassignment.

His heart soared at the thought. He had not endured the years of training to become a Zeta only to waste the best operational years of his career teaching theoretical physics. He was tired of waiting for a message to activate him to the life he had chosen—a life of action and danger. But now he had a target, and that made him stifle a smile.

He continued north, his pace relaxed. He didn’t greet or nod at anyone he passed—that was not the Berliner way. He took his time, his leather satchel over his shoulder, as he worked out his plan. Humboldthain Park was small, but he knew it well. He could think of several areas where he could take the woman, so long as she didn’t have other team members supporting her. He was unarmed, after all, living the genteel life of a professor. Even the occasional woman he took to bed—mostly graduate students at TU—would describe him as a tender, even sensitive, man. The irony was that inside he carried so much rage, rage he had no outlet for. Unable to spar and train properly without jeopardizing his cover, he’d lost twenty pounds of muscle during this assignment. He barely felt a Zeta anymore, and he hated the weak shell of a man he’d become.

Entropy, it seemed, had done its work well.

He entered the park, shuffling slowly, his hands behind his back, taking in the cool evening air as he wandered along the paths. His plan was to give himself a chance to look for spotters and agents who might be part of the woman’s team. He could not be sure how long they’d been surveilling him, but he’d not come to this park once in the past month, which meant it was extraordinarily unlikely assets were pre-positioned here. They would not think of this place—why would they? It was a perfect site for killing, but one would have to be a killer to know so.

He passed a woman sitting on a bench, reading a magazine, but she paid him no mind. As he walked north, he passed an old man with a cane, but the man was heading south, away from the trap. The spy resisted a smile, content with his plan.

Unless this is a test—a test I might fail. What would Arkady expect of me? Would he want me to remain in my legend and try to salvage it?

Surely not.

If I’m being followed, then my legend is compromised already. Unless she’s following me for other reasons? Something related to the university?

But he could think of nothing—of no reason that anyone would take any interest at all in the soft man who was Professor Erich Habicht or the boring work he did. There was no obvious military application to his esoteric research or teachings. And this woman was highly trained—a government agent for certain.

Either I’ve been made by the BND or it is the Americans. Regardless, the legend must be sacrificed.

He veered east to enter the rose garden. He didn’t see her, but he could feel her trailing him.

I will re-establish myself in a nonofficial cover of my choosing—outside of Germany but inside Europe. That will please and impress Director Zhukov. Then I will make contact, hopefully through Bessonov—she was my operational handler before infiltration, and I trust her.

He entered the garden and began his counterclockwise circle, stopping at the first bend to check a text message he pretended to receive, and in his peripheral vision he spotted her. Her appearance had changed again—an oversized green fleece pulled over her jeans, a grey ball cap—but he recognized her by her gait and her build. He suppressed a grin. God, how he had missed this—the thrill of the hunt. At the moment, he was the hunted, but when the time was right he would flip the script. The satisfaction of turning his hunter into his prey would be doubly rewarding. He could feel his edge returning, even felt his muscle tone improving, and he no longer walked with the lazy shuffle of Professor Erich-fucking-Habicht.

The smell of liquor mixed with body odor and urine filled his nostrils as a hunched figure rose with great difficulty from a supine position on a bench along the path. The bum was dressed in little more than layers of rags and reeked of a smell impossible to acquire in less than months of living on the streets. Habicht tensed nonetheless, preparing himself for an assault. But the man stumbled, then fell face-first onto the gravel path, cursing in German. Habicht gave the derelict a wide berth, circling him while he puked on the gravel path.

Disgusting . . .

As he distanced himself from his legend, the Russian spy struggled against the urge to kick the pathetic creature in the head. The bum looked up at him, puke dribbling through his shaggy beard, and raised a filthy hand.

“Kannst du mir bitte helfen? Kannst du etwas geld für essen sparen?” the vagabond said, begging for money for food, a drunken smile splitting his tangled, wet beard.

“Nein, Sie warden es nur für alkohol verwenden.”

The homeless man’s face clouded and his smile disappeared. “Fick dich dann,” he choked out before doubling over, wracked by a coughing fit.

Habicht shook his head, leaving the bum coughing on all fours as he continued north. He walked to a fork in the footpath and turned west to make a counterclockwise circle around the garden. In his peripheral vision, he saw neither the woman nor the disgusting drunk. He forced himself to slow his pace, while dropping his shoulders and shoving his hands into his pockets. For just a few more minutes, he needed to be Professor Habicht, and the professor didn’t walk with such strength and confidence.

The path continued in a circle at the periphery of the rose garden, and as he turned south, he stopped near a bench to ostensibly check his phone. A quick glance in all directions showed that, for now, he was alone. A cluster of trees obscured the sightline from the observation tower to the west, where his enemy might have positioned a spotter or a sniper. Satisfied he was still in control, he pocketed his phone and stepped over the knee-high black metal chain to exit the walking path. Behind him, he heard the faint crunch of footsteps on gravel.

She’s coming . . .

He slipped into the trees, disappearing among the long, dark shadows as the sun fell. He removed his coat, dropping it to the ground, and repositioned behind a large tree just a few yards from the edge of the path. There, he waited—his muscles tight and ready to strike, his breath long and controlled, his pulse rate paradoxically slowing.

My God, it is good to be me again, he thought as the footfalls of his prey grew louder.

A heartbeat later, she rounded the corner. He watched her approach the bench where he had stopped only moments ago and throw her hands up in frustration. Then she pulled her phone out of her back pocket.

“It’s me,” she said softly in English.

Ah, I was right. It’s the Americans . . . so arrogant. So overly aggressive.

He wished he could take her captive so that he could learn how they’d penetrated his legend. The risks in doing so, however, would greatly outweigh the potential gain. He needed to kill her and disappear as quickly as possible.

“I lost him, but I know he’s in the park . . . No, I’m by myself . . . Because how the fuck was I to know he would break routine today of all days and take a stroll?” She waited while someone spoke to her. “Look, I don’t need you in the park. I’ll reacquire and shadow. Position the team at both south corners and the van at the southeast corner. That’s where he’ll likely exit. If the opportunity presents, we grab him; otherwise, we take him at his apartment later.”

He watched her slip her phone back into her pocket and resume her search for him. When her back was turned to him, he moved swiftly, his feet silent on the pine needle carpet. He closed on the walking path, keeping just inside the chain to avoid the gravel until he was upon her. He lowered his shoulder—intending to wrap an arm around her throat, choking off any scream—when a putrid smell overwhelmed him.

Gravel crunched, and a slurred voice said, “Gib mir etwas verdammtes geld!”

Damn it! Where did he come from?

The drunk bum was back, stumbling toward them.

The American woman whirled, wide-eyed, and her hand slipped under her fleece.

Habicht leapt onto the path and used his forward momentum to shove her violently to the ground before he turned to grab the bum’s filthy outstretched arm. He clutched the man’s wrist, intent on pulling him off balance so he could deliver a blow to the temple, then immobilize the woman before she pulled her gun. But the drunk twisted out of his grip, and with lightning speed seized his forearm and pulled him off balance. Before he realized what was happening, he felt searing pain as his forearm shattered against the vagabond’s knee. Next, he felt his shoulder dislocate as the man in rags executed a second crippling strike.

I’m such a fool, he thought as he tried to get back in the fight.

Ignoring the pain in his arm and shoulder, he tucked and spun, dodging the bum’s third strike. He tried to drive a kick into the other man’s groin, but his assailant was like a wolverine—savage and relentless. He felt his strike blocked and then took a blow to the temple. Stars exploded in his eyes and he lost his sense of balance and spatial awareness. An iron claw clutched his throat. As his vision cleared, he found himself staring up into the derelict’s eyes—eyes burning with fire above a dirt-and-vomit-speckled beard. The fist closed on his throat and he felt a sickening crunch.

The woman—his prey—stepped into view, her expression cold apathy as she peered down at him over the monster’s shoulder.

Deprived of oxygen, his lungs burned and his vision began to dim.

He felt cool metal under his chin—the wide barrel of a suppressor.

The wolverine man’s eyes bore into him. “De oppresso liber,” the American assassin growled.

Then he heard the pistol discharge, felt the burn under his chin.

And the world went red.