The plan had been direct and effective: to make Das Verarbeitungszentrum fade into the background of a sleepy tourist suburb of a major city and to be essentially impregnable.

“No one can find it,” the designers assured the three governments that shared the invisible prison. “No one can beat it.”

CHAPTER 88

PHOENIX HOUSE

OMFORI ISLAND, GREECE

“Boss,” Bug shouted, leaning his head out of his office and yelling loudly enough to make everyone jump, “I got him!”

Church, who had been in deep conversation with Scott Wilson, wheeled around.

“Where?”

“Germany.”

“Germany?” exclaimed Wilson. “That isn’t on our list of possible targets for him. Are you sure?”

“Pretty darn sure.” Bug waved Church and Wilson into his office. Outside, at least thirty staff members had already clustered, craning their necks, jostling one another for a view.

“Someone hit our safe house on Krampenberger Straße in Berlin,” he said. “Darted the poor guy stationed there. Guy woke up a few minutes ago and says last thing he remembered was watching a rerun of a cop show. Something called … Alarm for Cobra something-something.”

“Alarm für Cobra 11—Die Autobahnpolizei,” translated Wilson. “Highway police show that’s been on forever.”

“Yeah. So that rerun started at 2:00 p.m. local time.”

Church looked at his watch. “That’s nine hours and change.” He glanced at Bug. “What did he take?”

“A full field kit, including a MindReader substation and tactical computer. Bunch of drones, weapons, clothes, you name it. And the officer there thinks maybe an old TradeWinds kite.”

“For what possible purpose?” asked Wilson.

Church ignored that and instead said, “The substation has a tracker…”

“Oh, already on it. Looks like Joe’s in the suburbs. Here, let me pull it up.” Bug loaded the tracking software, which immediately brought up a map. He pulled in on the screen, which brought up an overlay with town and street names.

“Wannsee,” read Wilson, “in the borough of Steglitz-Zehlendorf. Why’s he…?”

Then he stiffened so quickly it looked like he was snapping to attention. He turned to Church. “No … surely not…”

“I think he is,” said Church, and there was the faintest hint of an admiring smile on his lips.

“Is … what?” asked Bug.

“He’s going to try and break into Das Verarbeitungszentrum,” said Wilson. “Which, of course, is impossible.”

CHAPTER 89

DAS VERARBEITUNGSZENTRUM

WANNSEE, BOROUGH OF STEGLITZ-ZEHLENDORF

BERLIN, GERMANY

So, I broke into the processing plant.

Took about three minutes.

Even brought Ghost, and he loves this kind of thing. Going where we’re not supposed to go. Pissing on someone else’s floor.

I could have gotten actual permission to enter the facility, but there were three good reasons why I didn’t.

First, it would take too much time. The world runs on red tape, and I hate bureaucracy with the fiery intensity of a thousand suns. I’m stealing that quote, though I neither know nor care who from.