Desmond stood for a minute, looking across the square at Berlin’s most visited and recognizable monument, the pre-eminent symbol of German history: the Brandenburg Gate. His research last night had been fascinating. The gate had been constructed in the 1780s by Frederick William II, the king of Prussia, Germany’s predecessor state. Conceived as the entrance to Unter den Linden—which led at the time to the Prussian palace at the end of the street—the sandstone monument had been modeled after the Propylaea in Athens. It featured twelve carved columns—six on the front side, six on the rear—and was massive: 66 feet tall, 213 feet wide.
During World War II, the buildings in Pariser Platz had been leveled, and the Brandenburg Gate was significantly damaged. It sat unrepaired until 1957, and even after its restoration it was rarely visited, as it was enclosed by the Berlin Wall, preventing residents of both the east and west from reaching it. Second only to the wall itself, the gate came to stand as a symbol of a divided country and capital.
It was before this gate’s towering pillars that President Ronald Reagan stood in 1987 and said, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall.” But it was the Germans themselves who tore it down—on November 9, 1989, after East Germany announced that its citizens could visit West Germany. And a month and a half after that, on December 22, 1989, West German Chancellor Helmut Kohl walked through Brandenburg Gate to meet East German Prime Minister Hans Modrow, formalizing the unification of Germany after almost forty-five years of division.
As Desmond watched the midday sun shine down on the monument, casting shadows on the crowds bustling through Pariser Platz, he hoped the gate’s history was a good omen—and that the day’s events would set him on his own course to freedom.
A few hundred feet away, a man named Garin Meyer stepped out of a taxi and made his way to the center of Pariser Platz. He wore a navy peacoat, jeans, a ball cap, and aviator sunglasses. He took a spiral-bound notebook from his backpack, flipped it open, and held it to his chest, revealing a page with block letters:
LOOKING GLASS TOURS
He stood still for several minutes, then began looking around, growing increasingly nervous.
In a white cargo van parked near Pariser Platz, two men wearing headphones hunched over a bank of computer screens, watching video feeds of the man holding the sign.
“Units One and Two, subject looks antsy. Be prepared to pursue and capture if he takes flight.”
Clicks echoed over the open comm line, acknowledging the directive.
“Unit Three, confirm you’ve attached the tracking dot to the subject.”
Another click echoed on the line.
They would know exactly where Garin Meyer went, and if they were successful, he would soon lead them to Desmond Hughes.
A runner in fluorescent spandex stopped in front of Garin, tied his shoe, then handed him a business card and darted off.
Garin read the card, stuffed the notebook into his backpack, and jogged across the square. He ducked inside a canvas-covered rickshaw, which took off, racing along Pariser Platz and onto the pedestrian trails in the Tiergarten.
“Subject is on the move,” Unit Two announced over the open comm line.
A second later, he added, “He’s switched. Subject is now in a rickshaw with a blue top.”
The men in the cargo van could hear the field agents panting as they ran.
“I’ve lost him,” Unit Two said.
“Units Three and Four, report.”
“Unit Three. I’ve got him. He switched again outside the rose garden.”
A long pause, then, “He’s pulling away.”
“Unit Six,” a woman said. “I’ve got him. Passing the Bismarck Memorial.”
She panted as her footfalls grew faster, then stopped. “Subject has exited the rickshaw. Be advised, a similarly dressed man has jumped into the rickshaw: peacoat and jeans. The shoes, sunglasses, and hat are different. Actual subject is moving on foot.”
One of the men in the van spoke over the open line, “Confirmed, tracking dot is moving on foot.”
The woman’s breathing slowed. “He’s entering the English Garden, moving toward the teahouse. Please advise.”
“Observe and follow, Unit Six,” the agent in the van said. “Units Five and Seven, converge on the teahouse. Be advised meeting may be taking place there. Be on the lookout for Hughes and prepare to apprehend.”
The teahouse inside the Teirgarten’s English Garden was packed with tourists. Garin squeezed past them and entered the men’s restroom. The last rickshaw driver had given him another card:
In the restroom, seek the Looking Glass and await instructions.
Garin wasn’t sure what it meant, but inside the bathroom, he found a paper sign taped to the second stall:
Out of Order
Looking Glass Sanitation
He slowly pushed the door open.
Outside the teahouse, Unit Six watched Garin Meyer exit and race to a cab. She moved quickly, speaking into her mic. “Subject has exited the building, entering a cab with plate number B WT 393.”
The lead agent in the van said, “Tracking confirmed. Units Five and Seven, pursue. Air One, do you have eyes on the cab?”
“Affirmative, Alpha Leader, target is painted. We’re following.”
As the cab pulled away from the curb, Units Five and Seven put their motorcycles in gear and followed a few cars behind, careful not to attract attention. Twenty minutes later, the subject exited the cab and entered a small cafe on Reichsstra?e, a few blocks from the Olympic stadium built for the 1936 games. He sat at a small table in the back and took out his cell phone.
Outside, the two units on motorcycles waited, as did the helicopter unit. Thirty minutes later, one of the agents in the van said, “You think Hughes got spooked?”
“Maybe.”
“You want to make the call?”
“No. Let’s wait a few more minutes.”
They were both dreading the call—and the consequences. Conner McClain would not be happy.
The subject rose and walked to the bathroom. When he didn’t emerge after five minutes, the lead agent said, “Units Five and Seven, take the subject into custody. Repeat, enter the cafe and take the subject into custody. Ground Two, bring the van around for extract.”
The two agents entered the cafe, marched to the bathroom, and burst in, handguns drawn.
The bathroom was empty.
In the van off Pariser Platz, the two agents shared a nervous glance. The lead agent took out his mobile phone and dialed.
Off the Horn of Africa, on board the Kentaro Maru, Conner McClain answered with a single word. “Report.”