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I ducked into the first hotel I came across. A humble two-star place—a glorified hostel, really. But the lobby had a kiosk full of tourist brochures, including local maps to help me orient myself. Apparently, I was now in Weitlingkiez, which wasn’t too far away from the Berliner Dom. My “kidnappers” must have taken an overly circuitous route to confuse me.
I needed to figure out my next move. I gamed out a few scenarios, but in my heart I knew there was only one choice.
I was going to have to reach out to Quentin.
Years ago, he’d developed a last-resort system of personal communication that didn’t require any fancy technology or spy gear—he didn’t trust satellites, cell phone towers, or the Internet to be working properly in a crisis. He also needed a system outside the purview of the Company, in case it was ever compromised by a foreign agent.
Quentin’s system was simple. There was a person in a room, sitting by a landline. When you called that number, you gave a coded message that would be passed along to Quentin.
(I once asked Quentin about that person in the room—or rather, the several people in that room, who worked rotating shifts. What were their lives like? How much did he pay them? And was a service only used twice a decade worth the expense? Quentin just smiled and said: “They’re the best-read people you’ll ever meet.”)
I picked up the hotel courtesy phone and dialed the number. I spoke into the receiver and gave the message I’d memorized long ago:“Vergessen sie nicht, Kirschen zu kaufen.”
Translation: “Do not forget to buy cherries.”
This sentence included two pieces of information: that I was in Germany, and that my situation was critical (cherries, red).
A female voice responded in a flat Midwestern accent: “I’ll make sure he knows that, dear,” and then disconnected the call before I had the chance to ask her what novel she was currently reading.
The protocol was to stay near the same landline for five minutes. If Quentin could be reached, he’d call back. If not, it meant he was deep into some other op and I was on my own.
It felt like I spent forever in that overheated, seedy lobby. A half-dozen college-age kids with backpacks entered at one point, tipsy and rowdy. They sized me up as potential prey, but quickly looked away. Maybe I looked homeless. Or perhaps they could see the death in my eyes.
I thought about what Quentin might say after these past six months. My retirement had been a little awkward; he thought I was making a rash decision. I’d extended multiple invites to meet Kevin, but Quentin had demurred.“If you’re not in this life, I can’t be in yours.”
The phone rang. I pushed through the crowd of backpackers to answer it. This took more energy than I’d expected; I was practically out of breath by the time I held the receiver to my head.
“This is Samantha.”
“Bell, get out of that hotel immediately,” Quentin said. It was the first time I’d heard his voice in months, and despite the words he was speaking, I felt some degree of relief. Quentin had always been something of a father figure or an older brother to me. And right now he was the only family I had left.
“Listen to me. Interpol is closing in on your location.”
“Good. Tell them that I can be trusted. I’d love a ride to a safe house.”
“You don’t understand. I don’t trustInterpol. There’s a lot happening behind the scenes here—”
“What do you mean ‘here’? You’re in Berlin?"
“I arrived just after you escaped from the hospital. Look, I’ll explain everything later when I find you… but right now I need you to put down the phone andrun.”
CHAPTER 28
EASIER SAID THAN done, breaking into a sprint when you’re at death’s door. In my condition the best I could hope for was evasion.
Using the map of the area I’d memorized from those tourist brochures, I zig-zagged my way through the dim streets of Weitlingkiez. I checked every reflective surface for signs that someone (or some vehicle) was following me. I saw nothing. Either I’d slipped away from the hotel before Interpol could pick up my trail, or I was being followed by some truly exceptional agents.
But maybe I was giving myself too much credit. The symptoms I’d felt in the hospital were coming back strong. Maybe it was a combination of rest and sheer willpower that had kept them at bay. But now I felt like I had the night before, when I was almost flattened by a bus. My body was reminding me:Don’t forget, we’re preparing to close up shop. Conduct your final transactions before we pull down the metal gates one last time.
I couldn’t stay out here for much longer. Either Interpol would find me, or I’d collapse in the street. I needed a safe place to wait until Quentin could meet me. This was my mission now: tell him everything I knew so that he could avenge me and Kevin after I was gone.
But what would I tell him, definitively? That I had a stronghunchthe Russians weren’t behind the attack? That I had afeelingI was the real target? Quentin dealt in proof, not conjecture.
So I thought about the things I’d observed, starting with the moment I opened the door to find Kevin’s body.
The position of his body.
The strange scent in the air.
