State Of The Union

“I don’t see anything,” said Max.

“Neither do I,” replied Herman. “What are you looking at?”

“Run it again,” was Harvath’s answer, “but this time take it back and start it from where the men walk out of the frame.”

Schroeder rewound the tape to the appropriate point and let it play.

“Nothing,” said Max, frustrated.

“Scot, it’s an empty street scene,” added Herman.

Suddenly, Marc Schroeder sat up straighter in his chair. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He swiveled around, looked at Harvath and said, “Lower screen right?”

Harvath nodded in reply.

“Lower screen right?” argued Herman. “There’s nothing there.”

“Yes there is,” returned Schroeder. “Right on the very edge. I can’t believe I didn’t catch it. I’ll put a spotlight on it for you.”

Moments later, with the lower right hand portion of the screen highlighted, they all saw it. Just barely in frame, was the back of a late model BMW with part of its license plate visible. Then it was gone.

Chapter 24

Karl Überhof’s apartment was located just off Unter den Linden, once one of the best known boulevards in all of Europe and the preeminent thoroughfare of East Berlin. With the information they had gathered from the bank footage, Marc Schroeder was able to scan the digital stills from the traffic cams until they had found what they were looking for. A black BMW had in fact blown through a red light at the intersection of Grunewaldstrasse and Goltzstrasse. By comparing the time code stamped on the digital traffic cam photo with the time code on the bank footage, they knew they had a match. The picture gave them a complete license plate number, which jibed with the partial they already had. With one phone call, Sebastian was not only able to get the registration information on the car, but his contact was able to fax him the drivers’ license photo of the man it was registered to-Karl Überhof. Though the quality wasn’t the best, it was still good enough for their purposes.

Harvath had been against storming Überhof’s apartment, especially after what had happened at the Capstone safe house. Though he didn’t believe Überhof had any idea they were on to him, at this point, he was their only lead. After weighing all of the potential outcomes, Harvath decided they would be better off shadowing him to see where he might go.

Sebastian didn’t agree. He and his men had checked Überhof’s parking garage and had verified that his black BMW was there, which likely meant that the man was upstairs asleep. Sebastian wanted to surprise Überhof in his bed, confront him with what they knew, and force him to talk.

‘And if he’s a professional?’ Harvath had asked. How long might it take until they finally broke him? What if they couldn’t break him? What if they screwed up and killed him? What then?

No, Harvath had reasoned, it was better to let Überhof take them right to Gary Lawlor. And though Sebastian had eventually agreed, he had also brought up a very good argument. What if Gary actually was in Überhof’s apartment? Merely staking out his place wasn’t going to tell them that. What’s more, what if Überhof and whoever he was working with were torturing Gary? What if when they got to him it was too late? How long was Scot prepared to sit outside and do nothing?

It was one of those textbookdamned if you do, damned if you don’t scenarios that all too often presented themselves in hostage situations. The weight of the decision was not one Harvath enjoyed riding on his shoulders, but he accepted responsibility for it nonetheless. In the end, he agreed with Sebastian that a time limit should be set. It was the decision that made the most strategic sense. If Überhof didn’t show his face by the appointed time, they would kick the door in and take down the apartment.

Having not slept much over the last two days, Harvath appreciated being able to close his eyes for a while, even if it was stretched out in the back of the MEK’s mock bakery truck. He’d slept in worse places and if there was one thing his training had taught him, it was that sleep was a weapon.

Because of the damage to Harvath’s ribs, Sebastian had offered to take his shift and give him more time to rest, but Harvath had refused. He awoke at the appointed time and walked over to his position at an all night café on the other side of the Bebelplatz. He passed an illuminated piece of art-a hollowed out-chamber with empty bookshelves that commemorated the Nazi’s famous book burning on that spot in May of 1933. He stopped to read the inscription by Heinrich Heine, who saw his books burned along with other “subversive” authors such as Sigmund Freud. The plaque read, “Nur dort wo man Bücher verbre

Harvath, per Herman’s suggestion, kept his German speaking to a minimum. He took a table in the corner by the window and simply ordered, “Ein Kaffee, bitte,” and when the waitress returned with the small pot that contained about two cups known as aKä

The current shift of MEK operatives were similarly placed at strategic points around the block, the idea being that if Überhof made a move, he was likely going to engage in a maneuver known as an SDR-surveillance detection route. In other words, he was going to make darn sure that he wasn’t being followed. By having men placed in different locations, they would be able to follow Überhof, hopefully without him knowing.

After sitting for two hours in the stiff wooden café chair, Harvath was glad that his shift was coming to an end. Outside, it had grown warmer, turning the snow to a cold drizzle, but the unusual change in temperature brought with it a very undesirable side effect-fog.

Where Harvath could see clear across the Bebelplatz when he had first entered the café, now he could barely see three feet outside its windows. As he set the newspaper in front of him and pushed back from the table, the voice of one of Sebastian’s operatives crackled over his earpiece. Überhof had been spotted leaving his apartment and was making his way across the Bebelplatz. The operative was following, but having trouble keeping him in sight in the thick fog.

As Harvath made his way to the large, etched glass doors at the front of the café, he spoke into his sleeve mike and asked the operative to give him an idea of where he was. “Staatsoper,” replied the man, referring to the opera house on the other side of the square, “coming toward you.”

“Good,” said Harvath. “When you get to the café, I’ll take him.”

“Kein Problem. I’ll let you know as I approach.”

Moments passed and Harvath waited impatiently in the café’s vestibule, his face turned away from the entrance as he pretended to appear interested in a flyer for a meeting of some working people’s consortium. It looked like communist propaganda to him, but then again he shouldn’t be surprised, the Communist Party was still very much alive and well in Europe.What people will waste their time on, he thought to himself. Just then, his earpiece once again crackled to life.

“Crossing the street now. Arriving at your location in-” said the operative, but his transmission was suddenly cut off.

“I didn’t hear you,” said Harvath, pushing the earpiece further into his ear. “Say again.”

Harvath waited but there was no response. He tried to hail the operative again, but still there was nothing.

A loud cracking sound drew his attention toward the entrance of the café. The etched doors shuddered on their hinges, and Harvath spun just in time to see the bloody body of the MEK operative who had been trailing Überhof slide down the glass. The small group of patrons inside began screaming and several of them rushed toward the windows in the front of the café to see what was happening.